


Shereshoy

by kmandofan90



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, City boy on the farm, F/M, Mandalorian culture and world building, Mandalorians being bullies toward other Mandalorians, No use of y/n, Not Canon Compliant, Reader Insert, the cat is a massive asshole, the chicken is a traitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29337300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmandofan90/pseuds/kmandofan90
Summary: Shereshoyis a word that is unique to the Mandalorian people. When tomorrow isn't guaranteed, warriors learn to live in the moment and embrace each day, and lust for the next.The days have blurred together into a state of boredom. As the family blacksmith, your days are spent in the forge, creating the tools the family needs to survive each season. Evenings are spent tending to the animals. It's a boring existence, albeit peaceful. Then one day,heshows up, wearing cheaply made, blue-green armor and a pure whitejai'galaarpainted on his pauldron. You almost turn the Death Watch warrior away, but your family's dire financial straits makes you reconsider.[Also a story about how even though Mar Vizsla is intelligent, he's not all that smart, and ends up in debt to Sayyeh, the local blacksmith. He also makes a good impression on her feral loth-cat, befriends her chickens, and charms his way into the cow's good graces. Oh, they also fall in love, too.]
Relationships: Death Watch Mandalorian x afab!Reader, OC: Mar Vizsla x afab!Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. When Fire and Beskar Collide

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing:** Reader x Death Watch Mandalorian (I’m calling him Mar Vizsla)  
>  **Word Count:** ~6200  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** A brief fight, lustful thoughts, and graphic description of beefy Mandalorian forearms, and someone gets a boner.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Alright, here’s the first chapter. I am breaking this up because this is getting quite long. (And also I can put more conversations into this if I have more chapters to work with.) Be aware that I’m talking out my ass when it comes to blacksmithing, ranching, and farming because even though I live in Texas I know little about these things. Also, I’m enjoying the chance to play around with Mandalorian social divisions and the like.
> 
> **[Originally posted to tumblr @anxiety-riddled-mando on 10/15/2020.]**

The forge, at this time of afternoon, is uncomfortably warm, as harsh sunlight beats down on the canvas roof of your outdoor workspace. Sweat drips down your back and gathers where your apron ties wrap snugly around your waist. Pausing, you take a moment to wipe up some of the sweat on your forehead. Then you go through your list of tasks for the day – your uncle needs a few new tools, and you need a new condenser coil for your stasis unit. The tools won’t take long to make. You may just need to buy another coil.

Yet another expense to deal with.

Aguilla, your insufferable loth cat, comes trotting into the outdoor workspace. She leaps onto the table and stays at the back end. She knows better than to interfere with your work. She purposefully plants her _shebs_ onto your only clean towel, earning an exasperated sigh from you.

 _Shabuir_.

You love her, though. You reach over and scratch that one spot just behind her ear, the one that makes her chirp and her back leg twitch. As you turn your attention back to the flames, you see a flash of blue from the corner of your eye. You look up at the Mandalorian approaching your workshop. Your eyes automatically drift to his pauldron. Instead of an _aliik_ , you see a _jai’galaar_ in white.

 _Death Watch_.

Three white stripes on the other pauldron. He’s fairly high ranking. Fuck. What are _they_ doing this far out? You just barely keep yourself from grimacing at his presence. No sense in offending a potential customer. He steps up to your table. You turn to him, trying to keep your posture neutral. Aguilla sits up as he approaches, her head tilting as she watches him.

“Good morning, sir,” you say in your politest customer-service voice. “How can I help you?”

As expected, his body language is unreadable.

“I was informed that you might be able to assist me with repairing my armor,” he says, gesturing at his breastplate.

Your eyes fall downward, and your mouth drops open in shock. You had been so fixated on him being Death Watch that you completely overlooked his breast plate. The gouges run deep enough to reveal the insulator that shields the innermost electronics.

“The hell did you do?” you ask incredulously.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You will have to supply your own _beskar_ if you want repairs made.”

His head cocks slightly to the left.

“You have worked with _beskar_ before?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, and you offer no further explanation.

You wipe your hands on the cloth hanging out of your belt and step closer to him, ignoring the way his entire body tenses. The edges of the gouges are smooth. At the bottom edge of the gouge, you can see where little beads of molten _beskar_ have puddled and cooled. Your brows furrow as you lean in. This looks familiar.

 _Very familiar_.

“Some sort of plasma cutter?” you ask, lifting a brow at him.

“You could say that,” he responds, shifting his weight to his other foot.

He’s _nervous._ The realization hits you a moment later.

This fucking _di’kut_. He tried to fight a Jedi. Judging by how bad the damage is, you know the Jedi won this fight. You almost sigh in exasperation. This is the exact reason for your chosen profession as an armorer and blacksmith. _Someone_ has to put these cocky idiots and their armor back together.

You choose to tread carefully with him from here on out. Your family are a Tribe of tradespeople. If he brings trouble back here in the form of backup, there’s not much your people can do against them. The warrior-clan your family supports is just barely big enough to protect this land. Not only that, the majority of their leadership – including their _Alor_ – are off on Mandalore, dealing with politics, leaving your family to deal with their _shabuir_ _al’verde_.

“Do you know if the electronic components are still intact?” you ask. “Have you tried disabling the electromagnetic attachment system and restarting it?”

He gives you a long look.

“I am not certain.”

“How far from home are you?”

“That’s none of your concern,” he growls, taking a half-step back.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You give him a glare.

“Mando, I genuinely do not care where you live,” you say, unable to keep your temper out of your voice, “I’m asking if you’ll be able to make it back if you can’t put it back on.”

He hesitates to answer.

“Probably,” he says, though he sounds unsure of whether that is true.

“Well,” you respond, giving his breastplate a pitying look. “As much as I wish I could try my hand at remaking that plate for you, this forge cannot get hot enough to melt the amount of _beskar_ I would need. I also don’t have the composites to stabilize the crystal matrix – “

You trail off as he tilts his head. Inexplicably, you find yourself mortified at your wandering mind. Aguilla trills as you look back down at his plate.

“I’m sorry, I don’t often get to talk about some of the rarer alloys I get to work with,” you say. “I can patch the gouges and take a look at the electronics.”

You take a step back, craning your head way back to look up at his visor.

“How do you know so much about _beskar_?” he asks.

“What sort of blacksmith would I be if I did not attempt to familiarize myself with as many metals as I can?” you retort, narrowing your eyes up at him. “Furthermore, you would not be the first Mandalorian I have worked with.”

His posture relaxes and his shoulders lose their tension. He nods once as he accepts your response. Not a word you have said so far is a lie. _Aruetiise_ know you as the blacksmith. You have taken care to ensure you are familiar with metals and their alloys. As a Mandalorian, you work to keep the family ready to serve the _Mand’alor_ , should they ever call upon your tribe for goods or armaments.

“When can you get started?” he asks.

“What do you want me to use for the patches? I can use common steel or iron. If you have _beskar_ , that would be far better for you in the long run.”

“I have some with me. I just need to get it out of my bag. May I borrow a table to get it out?”

He looks at Aguilla, who has resumed licking her paw.

“I have a counter you can use indoors, if that would be preferable,” you suggest for privacy.

He nods once. You pull the door open and lead him into your yurt. The front third, divided by woven panels, is the indoor workspace. Here, you store your tiny induction furnace and more precious materials that cannot be left outside. The rest of the space is your home. He cleans his shoes on the mat and steps in, balancing his rucksack on his shoulder.

The worn leather bag looks like it’s ready to explode. Aguilla follows at his heels, looking entirely unconcerned with his presence. You gesture at the counter before pulling the flap closed once more. While he unloads what appears to be every single piece of property to his name from the bag, you set up your tiny induction furnace on the metal table in the back. He eventually finds his _beskar_ and begins piling his stuff back into his bag.

“Ready?” you ask, as he approaches your table.

Aguilla gives the furnace wide berth and goes to the far end of the table to keep watching, settling on her haunches.

“Alright, set your breastplate down on the table,” you say, going around to your side.

You open a cabinet and grab your smallest crucible before returning to him. Mando reaches up and disengages the electromagnetic latches. The instant he does, you hear a peculiar crackling noise from deep inside. Then you hear a loud pop and smoke begins to seep out through a crack in the metal.

“That is not encouraging,” he says mildly, as he sets the front half of his cuirass on the table.

You flip it over and examine the back. The welds are easy to find. Your propane torch makes short work of them. Flipping it back over, you pop the front away. A cloud of acrid black smoke wafts up into the air. You hurriedly turn the vent on.

“That can’t be good,” he repeats, peering down into the singed, smoking interior.

“This is bad, Mando,” you tell him.

“What’s the outlook on this kind of damage?” he asks, as you lift a smoldering chip from the cavity.

You give him a grim look.

“I don’t think this is going to turn back on,” you say.

Something in the breast plate sends up a pitiful shower of sparks and splutters, as if to confirm what you said. Mando sighs.

“What can be done?” he asks. “I can’t _not_ have my armor.”

“I understand,” you say. “Let me think. We may have to go the old-fashioned route for this.”

“Old fashioned?” he asks.

“Before complex electromagnetic attachment points, Mandalorian warriors had to literally strap the armor on. I can make you a leather harness.” You can’t help yourself from tacking on a dig at his status as a member of Death Watch. “You should really think about seeing a _real_ Mandalorian armorer. This piece of droid-made junk can barely be called armor.”

You turn away.

“You know nothing about my situation, _little_ _girl_ ,” he hisses.

The instant his hand comes down on your shoulder, your blood _boils_.

It takes only a split-second for you to come up with your response. Death Watch or not, you know a stupid, overly-confident hunter when you see one. He is the kind of person who lets the white _jai’galaar_ do the work of earning respect from those around him. He will expect you to shrug his hand off, perhaps flee. You take a big step back, slamming your elbow into his unprotected gut with all the force you can muster up.

The idiot is surprised by your attack and clatters back, stumbling as the backs of his legs hit the bench. You follow with an explosive burst of energy as you grab him by the collar of his flight suit. Twisting, you use your combined momentum against him, keeping him off-balance as you shove him back off the bench. He lands on the ground and you follow, landing heavily onto him. As you straddle his hips, your hand slides up to his throat and you squeeze.

“Mando, I’ve wrestled bulls with bigger balls than you into submission,” you say in a low, cold voice. "If you think for even a _second_ that you can intimidate me, you are stupider than you look.”

He does not move.

“Yield,” you growl, tapping your hammer lightly against his visor.

His throat shifts against your palm as he swallows.

“ _Ni dirycir ner kovid,_ ” he blurts out in a rush.

 _I bow my head in submission_. Those words are like the sweetest _pa’puurgal_ , sending a heady, dizzying rush straight through you. There is nothing in this universe that compares to victory through superior skill and tactic. Does he know what it feels like, or has Death Watch ruined this warrior?

“It means that I – “

His voice cracks as you squeeze the sinewy column of his throat, feeling his pulse through the material of his cowl.

“Do you think you’re the first Mandalorian to test my patience?” you hiss.

You force yourself to let go. Then you shift your weight back to get up. His modulator crackles as you press against a very firm, insistent bulge that had _not_ been there before. Hot, wet heat jolts straight into your core. Quickly, you get to your feet, ignoring the wanton ache between your legs.

You offer your hand and heave him up onto his feet. He refuses to look at you as he turns away to rearrange the bench. Making your way to the other side of the table, you notice that he sits down, presumably to hide his rather impressive erection. Aguilla comes padding over to sit next to him. She swats his hand away when he raises it to pet her. Surprisingly, she does not simply rip his hand off.

Huh. That’s new.

“As I was saying,” you say, resuming your previous train of thought. “I can patch the gouges and make you a leather harness.”

You find yourself willing to do anything to avoid thinking about the confirmation that this warrior has not been ruined by Death Watch.

“That’s fine,” he says, his voice sounding a little strained. “Please go ahead.”

Picking up the damaged front panel, you use your welding torch to soften the edges of the gouge and hammer them back into place, trying to conserve as much of the fuel as you can. Even with that intense heat, the metal is still brittle, and resists bending back into place. Tiny pieces of _beskar_ chip off, so you carefully sweep them into a pile to be melted back into the patches.

Occasionally, you pause to flip the chest piece back over and work from the opposite side, carefully working to bring the edges together. At around the three hour mark, Mando gives up on the electronics on the inside. You wonder why he is trying to salvage any of it, since he can probably go pick up a new one from his handler. Sipping some water down, you check on the plate one last time, running your gloved finger along the edges.

“May I have the _beskar_ , please?” you ask him. “Three fingers’ width should be enough.”

Mando hands you two small pieces. You make sure he can see your hands as you work from then on. _Beskar_ is precious to your people. The last thing you want is for him to think that you will try to steal any of it from him. You place it into the crucible with the tiny pieces that had chipped off. When the ingot is warm and red, you draw a piece of it off, watching as it pulls apart like taffy. _Perfect_.

Then you lay the glob down into the channel and begin to guide it into place with your hammer. Mando watches you intently, leaning forward as you work. He seems more curious than suspicious about your intentions. He has probably never seen a real armorer at work. A tendril of pride fills your belly at the recognition of your skill.

Death Watch mass produces its initiates' armor with molds and droids. Mando's armor had most likely snapped together and secured with tack welds on an assembly line somewhere. Glancing at him, you note that he has a thicker frame than most warriors his height. They had likely just given him the biggest plates they had instead of measuring him properly. It should be illegal to treat a warrior so poorly.

Flipping the plate over, you lean in to examine it. To your discerning eyes, it is evident that the metal here has been damaged and patched. Then you look at the piece of _beskar_ still in the crucible. You have no doubts that this idiot is going to try and track that Jedi down.

“Do you want me to reinforce the back?” you ask, hand hovering over the temperature control.

“Reinforce it? Why?”

“Are you planning on finding that plasma cutter and challenging it to a rematch?”

He huffs in response, shifting on the bench. Aguilla trills, clearly amused, as she sniffs his elbow. He reaches out. The damn cat lets him stroke her ears, a quiet purr escaping her. Then she drops into his lap and begins to knead his thigh.

You are in such shock that you nearly miss his response.

“Please reinforce it,” he mutters, still not looking up at you.

You smile and turn the heat up. The _beskar_ melts rapidly. You pour it into the back of the plate and tilt it from side to side, coating the entire thing with a thin layer of pure _beskar_. You hammer the edges just a bit to smooth it down.

“ _Beskar_ requires high temperatures to melt. When it is remelted after being cast, a lot of the stabilizing compounds are lost,” you explain, filling in the silence. “It has to be encased in _kajil_ clay and cooled gradually for it to absorb the organic compounds needed to stabilize the crystal matrix.”

“You know far more about _beskar_ than the average person.”

“I’ve had the privilege of working with a Mandalorian armorer. She taught me the basics.”

This is also technically true, as your mother is the one who has taught you all you know. She is currently with the rest of the tribe down south. Right now, she is most likely working to build up supply for when the warrior-clan returns.

“Without _kajil_ clay, these patches will be extremely brittle. I recommend you avoid jumping in front of speeding vehicles,” you say. Then with a smirk, “fortunately for you, brittle resists plasma cutters far better. You might win this time around.”

He growls and you laugh as you carry the plate to your cooling oven. Returning to the forge, you gather all the tiny pieces of _beska_ r that had broken off or splattered out. You scoop them into the crucible and melt it all into a coin-sized ingot. You quench and cool it before handing it back to Mando.

“How long will it take?” he asks curiously.

“Even without the clay, it needs to cool slowly. To be safe, I recommend overnight, though I would prefer at least twenty-four hours,” you say, wiping your hands on the rag at your hip.

He taps his fingers on the table, thinking about your recommendations. Aguilla jams her head under his chin and purrs. He scratches her under her chin, making her back leg jiggle a bit.

“And if I need to leave sooner?”

You wonder if he’s _running_ from something. It is not your place to ask, so you bite the question down warily.

“I still need to make a harness for you,” you say. “I have leather here, so it may take a day or two.”

Aguilla leans back and licks his visor, resting one paw on his broad chest. Maybe she’s gotten into the nepeta leaf again.

“Mando, I stand by what I said earlier. You _need_ to find an armorer to remake that plate.”

He nods. Aguilla jumps up from his knee onto the table.

“So, how much do I owe you?” he asks.

Aguilla almost looks like she is smirking. You ignore your insufferable loth cat and take out your notepad to jot down how much electricity and fuel you had used. His backplate still attaches, so you can just mount the harness to it. A few simple belts will distribute the weight of his breast plate nicely across his torso. It might take a few hours at most. Then you add your hourly fee and the Shabuir Tax for his earlier stunt for the final cost.

“So, including the costs for the fuel and electricity, plus my hourly fee,” you say, adding everything up, “Your total comes out to four thousand credits even.”

His head jerks up.

“Four – four _thousand_?” he repeats.

Your eyes narrow immediately.

“Will that be a problem, Mando?” you ask coldly.

You hear a quiet “ _osik_ ” as he checks his pockets. The amount he comes up with is far less than the amount he owes you. He stares down at the meager pile of credits on the table. Aguilla’s tail swishes back and forth. He stutters wildly for several moments.

“So. As you can see, I am short what I owe you. Would you be willing to allow me to pay…three hundred and forty-eight credits up front while I find work?”

Your jaw tightens as you struggle to not simply curse this idiot out. You require a twenty-five percent down payment from people _you trust_ and this _boracykir_ cannot even pay ten percent. A vein begins to throb in your temple. You’ve been stiffed before. Hunting down the person who owed you had taken nearly a week and you have no intentions of repeating _that_ clusterfuck all over again.

Aguilla meows at you and places her paw onto his hand. He glances down. Aguilla meets your eyes, as if telling you to let him work. You glower at your cat, but you loosen your grip around your hammer. Her judgment has never been wrong before. Maybe this Death Watch follower still has his honor.

“What work do you have lined up, Mando?” you ask curtly.

He stammers again and you know the answer before he can form coherent sentences.

“Well…I don’t actually have any work lined up,” he says. “However, I can check in the settlement to see if there is any available.”

Your blood begins to simmer once more as he trails off.

“All the spring crops have been harvested, Mando.”

Then a brilliant - if not slightly predatory - idea seizes you. This time of year, early spring crops have already been picked. Most of the Tribe has gone further south to begin planting the winter root vegetables, leaving the rest of you behind to deal with the livestock. When the livestock have all calved, you will all head south on foot, letting them fatten up on the nutrient-rich grass along the way. This means that a lot of your smithing duties get put off until nighttime, if you have time for it at all. You can push a lot of the dirty farm work off on him, teach him a lesson, and try to get some tools in stock before you rejoin your family.

“But…” You trail off deliberately, watching as his head shoots up. “I _could_ use some help around the place.”

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately.

“Fifty credits an hour,” you offer.

He almost looks taken aback by how low your offer is.

“Average is seventy-five for labor,” he counters.

“Do you have room and board lined up?” you ask, knowing the answer before he can even respond.

He falls silent and you purse your lips, wondering how he has survived for this long.

“…no, I do not,” he confesses. “Fifty credits an hour sounds good to me.”

“Where’s your ship?” you ask.

“I don’t have one.”

So. How did he get here?

You want to ask, but you are not sure you want to know at this point. He is clearly trying to avoid someone, and you do not want to get tangled up in his business. You inhale and exhale slowly, rubbing your forehead as you take another peek at him. While you had been sitting on him, you could feel the solid muscles along his sides rippling between your thighs. He can handle the hard labor while you work on the orders for the farmers who have remained behind.

“I’ve got about a week of hard labor for you,” you say. “Give me your jetpack. I will hold onto that and your breast plate until you are finished. I can get started on the harness later in the week.”

“You want my jetpack?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you say. When he hesitates, you continue, “I promise I won’t take it out for a joy ride.”

“Alright,” he says at long last.

Mando reaches over his shoulder and detaches it from his back plate. You take it from him and heft it under your arm as you head to your secure storage. You press your palm to the cabinet biometric scanner. The lock pops open. You put the jetpack into its new temporary home and shut the door. Then you check the time.

“The sun is setting, so you will be helping me with evening chores tonight. I will give you the tour as well. Let me lock up and we will get started.”

“Thank you,” he says.

You direct him to tidy up while you close up your workshop, locking the front door and shutting off the utility lines. Then you put your tools away while he sweeps the shavings into the bin to be sorted. With his help, closing only takes a half hour instead of the usual hour. When everything is in its place, you gesture for him to follow you through the heavy curtain dividing your workshop from your personal space. He steps into your living area and glances around.

“Traffic is never a problem,” you quip at him, as you turn the main light on. “Let me grab you some bedding and I’ll put a curtain up for you.”

“A curtain? What for?” he asks curiously, taking a hesitant step into your home.

Aguilla comes trotting in and makes a beeline for the kitchen to remind you that it is time for her dinner. You ignore her pathetic warbles as you address your guest.

“Tomorrow evening, you won’t want to be sleeping with a helmet on,” you say.

“That’s a little risky for my taste,” he says crisply.

“Look at it from my point of view,” you say, going to the shelves at the end of the room. “You are a strange man who owes me a lot of money. You also happen to be associated with Death Watch. I think we are on even footing at this point. Besides, I only have one heater. If you want to freeze, you are welcomed to sleep outside in the cart.”

“…I can’t argue with that,” he says. “But if you make _any_ attempt…”

He trails off, leaving the threat unspoken.

“Mando, I’m not interested in knowing what you look like under that ugly helmet of yours,” you say to him. “The only that matters to me is your work ethic.”

He looks indignant at your insult.

“It’s standard issue,” he says crisply.

“If you can name _one military_ that provides its recruits with armor that is both functional and pleasing to the eye, I’ll knock ten percent off your bill,” you retort, coming out with an armload of bedding.

He cannot come up with a response. You put the spare sleeping cushion on the opposite side of the central heating unit. He will be sleeping about an arm’s length from you, but Aguilla seems to trust this idiot for some reason. You think the damn cat might be part sorcerer or something. From the day you brought her home, she has always known who is safe and who is not.

Regardless, you decide to keep your weapon under your pillow. Without his breast plate, he would be stupid to try anything with you, especially since you have proven you can take care of yourself.

Aguilla’s warbles become impatient howls as you drop the mound of bedding on the cushion. You check the time. Two minutes past feeding time. You sigh. Perhaps Aguilla will have mercy upon you for this horrendous crime you have committed against her.

“Let me feed Her Royal Highness and then I can show you around outside,” you say, stepping into the kitchen.

"I'll be right behind you," he says.

As soon as she sees you approach, Aguilla lets out another agonized scream, sulking miserably by her bowl. You sigh as you reach into the stasis unit and pull out her wet food. After mixing it with her dry kibble, you scoop it into her bowl. Aguilla descends on the bowl as if she has never eaten before in her life, little annoyed grumbles escaping her.

“Sorry for starving you for the past ten years of your life,” you say sarcastically to the loth cat.

As usual, she ignores you. You get up and open the back door. Mando follows silently.

“My family rents this land from the owner every season,” you tell him. “We will be moving south once the livestock are finished calving. Hopefully, you will have finished paying me off before then.”

He nods at your explanation. You point to the modified cart at the edge of the field where the chickens live. They usually have free run of the field, but you have gathered them up for the journey south. They will be antsy and agitated about being cooped up.

“Chickens,” you say. “I gather their eggs first thing in the morning when they’re still in torpor,” you say. “Once the sun comes up, they warm up quickly, so you need to be in and out before they decide to gnaw your legs down to the bone.”

His head tilts down sharply.

“Chickens have teeth?” he asks curiously. “I thought they had beaks.”

You gesture at the pen as the first chicken comes to investigate the newcomer. Mando inhales sharply as the hens begin to call out their distinctive _gaww-gaww_ alarms. The alpha hen leaps against the fence, wrapping her long, taloned toes around the metal wires.

“That is not a chicken,” he says immediately, “That is a very small bipedal mythosaur wearing feathers.”

You snort in response.

The hen tilts her head and drops down to the ground, scampering back to the ramp on her back legs. She clambers up the ramp and remains there, watching the two of you intently. Her talons click on the wood as she sizes Mando up with intelligent yellow eyes, trying to determine if he is a threat to her flock.

“Believe it or not, they are the precursors to modern day Inner Rim chickens.”

“They _are_ carnivorous, then?”

You swear you can almost hear anxiety in his voice.

“Omnivores. Well, most of the time, at least. They will never say no to meat. Treat them with respect and feed them generously. The alpha will let you have the eggs she deems unworthy of sitting on.”

He swallows.

“Alright,” he says. “Just like riding a blurg, right?”

You tilt your head.

“I don’t know what that is,” you say.

“It’s a mouth with legs,” he says. “Uh. Never mind.”

You shrug. Then you point out the small building next to the chickens.

“Toolshed,” you say. “You will be cutting grass once you are done with the chickens.”

Then you point out across the field.

“Late in gestation, we move the cows into separate pens. They stay there until they give birth to and bond with their babies. The grass feeds them until they are ready to rejoin the rest of the herd.”

“I can cut grass.”

To your ears, it sounds like he is assuring himself.

“My uncle’s assistant will be leaving soon,” you say. “So, in a couple of days, I’ll show you how to milk the ones who have already given birth. By nightfall, the babies will have had their fill and we get the leftovers.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Have you ever seen a cow?”

“I’ve seen an Inner Rim cow before,” he says. Then he glances back at the chicken pen. “Do yours breathe fire or spit poison?”

You snort and shake your head.

“No, they just have a lot of teeth,” you say. “You will feed them tomorrow once you’re done cutting the grass.”

When the bloodbirds begin to caw, you automatically glance over at the prarie, watching as the dark shapes flit up from the ground nests and into the sky. They start to congregate into a hunting flock, so you grab his elbow and pull him back into the yurt. You certainly do not think about how firm his arm is.

“Time to go inside,” you say.

Fortunately, he listens to you, and steps indoors. You bar the door tightly and close the windows. He watches for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Those birds are actual birds,” you assure him. “They…uh…just like to drink blood.”

“…drink blood?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say. “They land on the ground near an animal and crawl up a leg. Their saliva contains something that numbs the skin, so they just kind of nip at the skin and take a few drops of blood before moving on.”

You decide to not tell him about the fact that the bloodbirds can drain an entire human being in a night.

“Will the chickens be alright?”

You pull the curtain back. Most people usually ask whether _they_ will be safe with the bloodbirds around, yet this strange warrior wants to know if the _chickens_ will be safe. One of the bloodbirds swoops into the pen, clearly thinking the hens an easy target.

The alpha hen leaps into the air and meets it. Feathers go flying as the hen tears the hapless creature to shreds. After she has taken a few bites, she begins distributing bits of meat to the other hens, feeding the massive rooster last.

“They’re flying chicken feed,” you say. “Speaking of feed, are you hungry?”

His stomach roars.

“Yes, please,” he says politely. “How may I help you?”

Dinner is sitting in the cast iron pot on the stove, having been simmering all day long. It was supposed to feed you tonight and tomorrow night. However, your guest needs to eat. You get the feeling that he has not eaten a good, home-cooked meal in a very long time, judging by the way he keeps looking at the pot.

“I’ll finish getting dinner ready. There’s a washroom at the end of the hall. Water is tepid, since it’s being recycled on demand, but you don’t have to worry about conserving it. I have some spare clothes that might fit you.”

At the tilt of his head, you continue in a rush.

“My eldest brother visited a while ago and left all his shit here for me to deal with. As usual.”

You aren’t quite sure why you offered that much information, but you feel an odd sense of relief when he nods. You go to the storage cabinet and pull your brother’s clothes out of the bin. Your brother is a solid handspan shorter than Mando, but a little broader in the shoulder. Everything should fit. You grab some spare toiletries and hand the pile to Mando. He takes that as an order to get ready for the evening.

Aguilla finishes licking her dish clean and comes to oversee dinner preparation. After scrubbing your hands clean, you begin peeling the vegetables. The water turns on in the bathroom. Inexplicably, you feel a twist in your belly at the thought of Mando using your bathroom. The last time you had an unrelated man in your home had been a very long time ago.

“If he murders me in my sleep, just remember that your _ba’buire_ get my stuff,” you say, glaring up at the smug feline. “You get _nothing_ , you hear?”

She trills from her spot on top of the stasis unit, her tail flicking back and forth lazily, watching as you slice and chop. She glances over at the doorway and chirps. Mando steps into the kitchen. As expected, the sleeves and legs are far too short for him. He looks oddly endearing that way. Fortunately, the slippers fit, so his feet will be protected from the cold.

“What can I do to help?” he asks.

“You can peel these while I chop. Put the skins and trimmings into the organic waste bucket. The chickens will appreciate a snack first thing in the morning.”

He joins you at the sink. Slowly, almost deliberately, he begins to roll up his sleeves. The breath leaves your lungs in a silent prayer, your pulse stuttering at the tantalizing, kissable veins crisscrossing his chiseled forearms. With a tremendous burst of willpower, you turn your attention away from him and back to the vegetables in front of you.

He’s Death Watch, you think to yourself. This Mandalorian is nothing but trouble for you. As soon as he pays off his debts to you, you are going to send him on his way and forget this ever happened. When the vegetables are ready, you tip them into the pan and carry it to the small stove. Then you open the cabinet and stand on tip-toe to reach the box of spices on the top shelf.

“Please, let me,” he says.

Before you can tell him that you have everything under control, he is standing _right behind you_ , reaching over you to help. Your brain quite literally shorts out at the feel of his solid chest pressed against your shoulder, the way his body swallows yours up as his fingers wrap around the plastic handle on the box. Then he lowers it into your hands and takes a step back, giving your poor brain a moment to reboot.

“Thank you,” you respond politely, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

Mando nods and goes back to work washing the dishes in the sink. Surreptitiously, you glance over at him, admiring the way you can see his shoulder muscles flexing through the flannel shirt. The delectable curve of his lower back. Your eyes fall to the generous curve of his firm backside and his rock-solid thighs.

Aguilla lets out a _chrrrrlllp_ , as if admonishing you for staring at your guest’s impressive backside. You pick up a spatula and begin working the vegetables around on the pan to crisp up the edges.

A week.

Just one measly week without trouble.

How hard could it possibly be?


	2. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Reader x Death Watch Mandalorian (I’m calling him Mar Vizsla)  
>  **Word Count:** ~7200  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Lustful thoughts, h*nd t*uching, mutual pining, City Boy On The Farm, the cat is a massive jerk, Mandalorians being bullies toward other Mandalorians  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Alright, here’s chapter two! :) Hope y’all enjoy me rambling/word building because I’ve got Ideas.
> 
> **[Originally posted on tumblr @anxiety-riddled-mando on 10/23/2020.]**

The next morning dawns bright, early, and crisp, a faint hint of the cooler autumn months pending ahead of you. Stretching, you sit up and wipe the sleep from your face. There are still a few minutes before the alarm goes off, but you do not want to waste time idling. Sliding your feet into your slippers, you pick up your pillow and stuff the blaster into your pocket. Then you shake out your bedding and start folding everything up.

Mando is still snoring quietly. Tilting your head, you can just barely see the toes of his boots and a piece of his armor peeking out from under the curtain. Quickly, you avert your eyes – that is not something you need to think about right now. He is trouble, you remind yourself firmly, as you come out into the living space. Aguilla chatters up at you, rubbing her face against your knee.

As you open the door, Her Highness skitters outside to take care of her morning business and terrorize the rodents outside. You shake your head and return to your duties.

You dig around in your clothes chest for clean clothing. Then you head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. As you splash water on your face, you peer at yourself in the mirror. Mando…was not what you had expected. Resting your hands on the edge of the wash basin, you try to gather your thoughts about this mysterious Mandalorian.

He had been so… _polite_. Said please and thank you when appropriate. Ate everything on his plate without complaint. Insisted on doing the dishes. Asked if there was anything he could get for you while you were getting ready for bed. He even disappeared outside to do a quick sweep to make sure the animals were okay. Then he brought in some firewood and made up his bed where you directed him to. After making sure there was nothing else you needed, he went to bed, falling asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Aguilla had slept on a pillow between your beds at your insistence, but he had not even twitched a finger.

You head into the kitchen and get started on today’s meals. As usual, you start by preparing the ingredients for stew. It will be both lunch and dinner, though the side dishes will be lighter at dinner.

Once the ingredients have been tipped into the pot, you get started on breakfast. Glancing at the second mug on the counter, you decide on five extra eggs and start cooking. Mando had eaten a solid two-thirds of the pot last night, and you think he might have been holding back to be polite. You check the time. Five minutes before Mando is due to wake up.

Well, if there is one thing you are used to, it is feeding your hungry brothers. Now, _they_ can truly put food away, sometimes going through an entire bag of grains in one sitting. How their food costs did not bankrupt your _buire_ growing up, you will never know. The alarm chimes. You hear nothing but quiet snores from the panel.

Sighing, you give him just a few more minute to rest. By the time you are taking the bread out of the oven, you have decided that he has had enough sleep. You knock on the panel nearest to his head.

“Mando,” you call out firmly. “Come get something to eat. You have a lot of hard work to do today.”

“Work?” he mumbles sleepily. You hear him sit up and inhale sharply. “Work, _osik_ , I’m sorry – I'll be right behind you."

You roll your eyes and go back to the kaff pot, pouring two very large mugs of it. One goes on the table, the other stays in your hands. After a few revitalizing sips, you feel awake enough to plate the eggs. Then you split a few rolls open and butter them generously. As you are reaching for some sliced fruit, Mando comes out, laces on one boot untied. Before you can warn him, he goes down face first on the ground.

“Concussion or no concussion, you’re not getting out of work today,” you tell him. “Bread?”

“Please,” he says, sitting up.

He swiftly finishes tying his laces and gets to his feet. You hand him breakfast. He lets out an appreciative noise as you turn back to the pot by the sink.

“I will go ahead and get the stew on for tonight,” you say. “When you’re done eating, come out to the field.”

“Aye,” he responds, and he goes back behind the divider to eat.

After adding spices, you pour in water and set the pot over the heating element. When you finish the last few sips of caff and your meal, you head outside into the chilly air to open the gas lines to the forge. You stoke the ceramic balls in the bottom until they glow red hot and arrange them around the perimeter to ensure it heats up evenly. Then you go back around the yurt, avoiding the shortcut through it so he can eat privately. You scoop some grains into the feeder mounted to the side of the coop. The door opens.

“Chickens?” he asks, looking out at the pen.

“Can you grab the bucket of trimmings under the sink? Also, the basket by the door, please.”

He turns back inside. After a moment, he comes outside, pulling the door shut behind himself. He approaches.

“The parts that jut out are the nest boxes,” you say. “You can lift the tops to get to their eggs. Remember to be respectful of their space and they will leave you alone. Also, keep the gate shut, you do not want to have to hunt them down again.”

“What is this for?” he asks, lifting the organic scraps up.

“They need a well-balanced diet like us. Grains for complex carbohydrates and fats. Bloodbirds for protein and minerals. Roughage like this has insoluble carbohydrates that keep their bowels healthy.”

“Oh, makes sense,” he responds. “I’ll be done as quickly as I can.”

You nod and watch as he approaches the first door. On second thought, you turn away to let him work. Maybe he is the type of person who needs to gain confidence before performing in front of someone else. He can collect eggs without supervision.

What’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

Mar stands at the door, watching as the biggest lizard-chicken approaches him. He crouches in the grass next to the gate. She stands on her back legs, her eyes level with his helmet. He swallows as he looks at her legs. They looked fragile from a distance, but up close, he can see that they are solid muscle, each of her four toes tipped in razor-sharp claws.

Armor or not, he knows that this animal could shred him to pieces if she felt like it.

“Hello,” he enunciates carefully to the chicken. “My name is Mar. I’m working for your owner right now.”

The creature stares at him with yellow eyes, pupils constricted to pinpoints. Mar does not know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. He pauses, watching her body language. Aside from the quick, shallow breaths that she takes, he can see no other changes.

“I would like to come give you a snack and then collect your eggs,” he continues. He feels a little silly, but you had said to be respectful. Respectful for him is how he treats his superiors. “May I come into your pen, please?”

The chicken trills at him. Mar takes it as permission to enter. He reaches up and undoes the latch. Then he removes the heavy piece of wood barring it. After he steps in, he latches the door behind himself. The bird meets him at the second door, ducking her head briefly to scratch at an itchy spot on her neck.

“I am going to come in, okay?” he says.

She lets out a noise like a stuttering _bes’bev_.

He unlatches the second door and steps into the pen. As she approaches, the feathers along her spine rise. He wonders if it is a warning of some kind, so he stays still as she sniffs his foot. Then she takes a half-step back and eyes the bucket in his hand. She lets out a sharp noise, tilting her head up at him. He crouches and slowly tips it over onto its side so she can see the trimmings inside.

“See? It’s food. Roughage,” he says, pointing at the scraps. “Please eat this. Not my legs. Okay?”

She slinks closer, eyes fixed on his visor, as she reaches out to grab a piece of potato skin between two wiry fingers. Like her toes, these fingers are tipped with curved, dangerously sharp claws. He stays put as she examines his offerings to her. Her mouth opens and his face drains when he sees the two rows of pearly-white serrated teeth in her mouth.

“Your owner said you would trade me your eggs for food,” he says. “Are we on amicable terms now, Madam Chicken?”

She sneezes, then she lets out a piercing whistle. The other chickens come swarming out of the coop and circle around them, calling out impatiently for their own share of the snacks. The rooster takes his place on top of the coop. Mar thinks he looks very much like a sentry on night watch. When Madam Chicken starts dividing up the food, he gets to his feet.

Madam Chicken stops what she is doing to stare at him. One of the hens tries to use it as an opportunity to grab more food. Madam Chicken reacts before he can even blink, snapping so viciously at the other hen that she draws blood. The hen drops the food and backs off.

Madam Chicken stares her down and returns to dividing up the scraps.

“Can I grab those eggs now?” he asks.

She ignores him.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Madam Chicken.”

Mar carefully approaches the coop as he watches the carnage with his side camera, his stomach roiling as he imagines what it might look like if they decided to eat _him_. Shaking his head, he puts the thought aside – no sense in panicking about birds that might actually be quite friendly. It would be wrong to judge an animal based on its looks. Even blurgs can be affectionate. Mar pulls the first nesting box open and starts to carefully liberate the eggs, stacking them neatly in the bottom of the basket.

From his side cam, he sees Madam Chicken jump onto the front of the cart. Then she scrambles up to the rooster and places a mouthful of scraps down in front of him. He eats while she keeps watch. He finds himself fascinated. The only kind of chicken he has ever seen in his life is served on a plate with a sauce. This entire situation is bizarre to him. He is used to life in the city and all the troubles that come with it.

These animals probably weigh a fraction of what he does, yet only one could probably disembowel him if he did something to upset them. It is a sobering thought to know that his combat skills are useless here. This is a new world for him. His _buire_ always warned him to bite his tongue and bow his head when he is out of his element. No sense in risking losing his life over his pride.

A heavy weight thuds onto the box next to his elbow. He looks up. Madam Chicken is watching him once more, feathers held flat against her neck. She looks calm. It is quite reassuring to him.

“Hello, Madam Chicken,” he says, offering her a peek into the basket. “This look good?”

She just watches him, talons clicking on the metal box lid, as he continues. When he reaches the box at the end, she lets out a noise like a bark, feathers rising sharply. Yup, definitely a warning of some kind.

“Does that mean stop?” he asks.

She settles her weight onto the lid of the next box, feathers puffing up some more.

“Okay, no eggs from this box,” he says.

His confidence grows as the hen allows him to harvest the next row of boxes. He thought that his morning would be an absolute shitshow, considering he has never even _seen_ a living chicken before in his life. This success is encouraging. When he is finished, he looks to Madam Chicken and clutches the basket to his chest.

“Thank you very much,” he says politely. “I’m sure your owner will appreciate your cooperation today. I know I do, Madam Chicken.”

He heads back to the exit. Mar cannot help the spring in his step at the successful conclusion to this mission. The other chickens scurry out of the way as he exits and latches the doors behind him. Then he carries the basket back to the house. Mar lets himself inside and places his cargo onto the table, hoping that you will be proud of his swift work.

When he opens the back door, those happy feelings of triumph and pride are dashed into a million tiny pieces. The coop doors are swinging in the light breeze, chickens streaming out after the rooster. The alpha is the last to escape. She rises onto her back legs and calls out, as if mocking him. She then takes off in a cloud of dust and grass, barking orders out at her flock as they spread out in the field.

“ _Osik_!” he bellows. “Fuck! _Fuck_!”

“Did you leave the pen open?” you ask, peering out after him.

“Uh…yes,” he says, his face burning scarlet in mortification.

He has already fucked today up. He hears a trill from above his head. Aguilla is sitting on the roof, a mocking loth-cat grin on her face. Mar groans. Even the fucking _cat_ is mocking him.

“There’s ground meat in the bottom of the stasis unit. If you can convince the alpha chicken to cooperate, the flock will follow her back,” you say easily, as if you had expected this to happen.

“I’ll go get them right now,” he says grumpily.

Mar scoops some of the raw meat into a plastic bag and begins to chase after the chickens. They are more interested in destroying the bloodbird nests. He can hear the birds crying out in alarm, but it is too late for them. Even the fat, old rooster works his way through a few of the nests. Mar sprints after the alpha chicken, but she is too fast for him, even when she stops to snap up some of the blood birds.

“Come here, Madam Chicken,” he says to her. “ _Please_ cooperate, please don’t do this.”

After what feels like hours of chasing, the alpha chicken begins to slow down, weighed down by her feast of blood birds. Mar pants heavily, hands on his knees, as he tries pleading with her one more time.

“Come on, Madam Chicken,” he says. “I thought we had a truce?”

She stares up at him as he offers a bit of meat in the palm of his hand. She sniffs it. Delicately, with the very tips of her claws, she picks up the meat and begins to eat it. She licks her muzzle and takes one step toward him. Mar lures her back to the pen, encouraging her each step of the way.

“Good chicken,” he says. “You are such a fearsome little warrior. You did good on your hunt, yes you did. But don’t you want to sleep now? Sleep in a nice, safe pen where no one can bother you?”

At his urging, she and the rooster herd the rest of the flock into the pen. Mar sinks down onto the ground, panting, with the bag of meat in his hand. Sweat rolls down his forehead and into his eyes, making them sting and water.

The rooster flops down onto the ground a few yards away, flat on his belly with both legs and wings spread out in the sunlight. His belly is round and distended with the massive meal he had just devoured. Glancing around, Mar sees that he is quite alone, and he takes his helmet off to scrub some of the sweat off his face.

 _That_ piques Madam Chicken’s interest. She comes darting over and draws to a halt next to him, head cocked curiously as she peers up at him.

“What, never seen a Mandalorian before?” he quips at her. “Do I look more appetizing now that you know I’m made of human meat?”

She leaps onto his knee and peers up at him, her nose just inches from his. He can smell the coppery blood on her breath as she sniffs him. She then sits back on his knee and lets out a warbling noise. He shrugs.

“I’m not allowed to show my face to other people,” he explains. “Part of the whole Deathwatch thing, you know?”

She begins to scratch at that itchy spot again. Mar lifts his hand slowly. She draws back initially, but when he begins rubbing that spot for her, she lets out another trill of delight, leaning into his fingers.

“See? I have my uses,” he says. “ _Please_ don’t eat me. I promise I will be nice to you. I promise I will give you all the head scratches you want. Your roost, your rules. But please. Do not run again. I’m out of shape.”

She shakes out her feathers and reaches for the bag of meat scraps. Delicately, she uses the tips of her claws to scoop out tiny morsels of meat. She eats the rest, watching him curiously. Mar lets his head fall back against the wooden post. His skin is prickly and itchy from the dried sweat.

Madam Chicken hops off his leg.

“Can we not do this again, please?” he asks her. “I don’t think your owner will be too pleased if I do this a second time.”

She caws at him. He can’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

After doing a lap around the perimeter of the pen, she takes a spot next to the snoring rooster. Mar shakes his head and replaces his helmet. Then he heaves himself up and lets himself out, barring the doors this time. With sinking feeling, Mar realizes that the sun has just barely risen over the mountains, and he has already screwed things up. So much for impressing you with his work ethic and proving himself competent.

You must think him a complete idiot.

* * *

You watch as Mando sprints around the field and sigh quietly. Maybe you should have warned him. The chickens know how to get around the latches, but they cannot lift the heavy wooden beams out of the way. Well, this will be a lesson for him, you think, as you return to your forge and begin heating the ingot of iron. This particular ingot will be formed into a new hoe for your brother.

After an hour or so, Mando returns, his chest heaving. Parts of his suit are stained green with grass.

“All the chickens are back where they belong,” he says. “I’m sorry, I thought I latched the doors.”

“You probably forgot to bar them. They figured out the latches ages ago. They’re mainly there to keep wildlife _out_ of the pen. The bars are too heavy for the chickens to lift.”

“Oh,” he says. “That makes sense.”

You check the forge. Nearly at operating temperature.

“I’ll come show you the tools,” you say. “Then you can get started on the grass.”

“Whenever you are ready,” he responds.

You wipe your hands on the rag stuffed into your waistband and close the cover on the forge. Then you circle around the yurt toward the toolshed and step inside. Mando comes trotting after you. Belatedly, you think to warn him about the beam across the top of the doorway.

“Mando, watch – “

There is a _bang_ like gunfire as his helmet collides forcefully with the top edge of the doorway. He shakes his head a bit and ducks down. He appears to be unaffected by the collision. You stare at him for a moment before shrugging to yourself. Well, you think wryly to yourself, at least his helmet is doing its job – protecting the single braincell he appears to possess.

You find his clumsiness oddly endearing. You put that thought from your head immediately as you survey the tools. Work first, laugh at him later.

“The cows don’t like the heavy machinery, so you will be using a scythe to cut their food. Use this rake to gather it into a pile and use the pitchfork to dump it into the cart. Then you will be taking the cart to the pens to feed them. Any questions?”

He stares at the scythe for a few moments.

“Uhm…which one is the scythe?” he asks slowly.

Unsurprising, you think to yourself. You take the equipment down and demonstrate its use, swinging it back and forth so he can see the right body motion.

“Use your momentum, don’t force it,” you say. “Make sure you take some water with you. If you pass out or cut something off, I’m going to have to charge you for medical care.”

“I understand,” he says.

“Cart is behind the toolshed,” you say. “I’ll be in around front finishing up some tools for the farmers. I will call you in for lunch. Go get started.”

He nods as he balances the tools in his arms. When his head collides with the beam a second time, you grimace. This is going to be a very long week. Sighing, you return to the workshop and put on your apron. Hopefully, the _di’kut_ won’t end up cutting his own leg off. You put him out of your thoughts and begin working to form the ingots into the tools your family will need throughout winter.

Just before noon, _Ba’vodu_ Darred comes to the forge. You place the new tool heads down on the table and greet him. He pauses.

“So, I see you have someone workin’ for ya,” he says conversationally. “Was…was that a _jai’galaar_ I saw on his pauldron?”

Your good mood evaporates immediately. Glancing around, you nod once in confirmation. Your uncle frowns. You know what he is thinking. _Trouble_. The very, very bad kind that your people cannot afford to invite into your lives right now.

“What is he doing this far out?” he asks quietly, his voice taking on a tone of urgency.

“I haven’t a clue,” you respond, shaking your head. “He doesn’t have a ship. He has no money. It looks like he has everything he owns in his bag.”

“You think he’s a deserter?” _Ba’vodu_ Darred asks slowly.

“If he was a deserter, I think he would have tried to hide the _jai’galaar_ ,” you say slowly, turning up the heat a bit. “He’s made no effort to hide it.”

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred lets out a grumpy _harrumph_ in response.

“No money?”

“Idiot tried to fight a Jedi or a sentient plasma cutter,” you say with a wry smile. “He thought four hundred credits would cover the repairs. He will be doing all the hard chores for the week while I try to get us ahead for winter. Maybe we can get some tools set aside to sell.”

He exhales and shakes his head.

“That would be really helpful right now,” _Ba’vodu_ Darred says quietly. “Does he know we’re Mandalorian?”

You snort. There is no way he has figured it out.

“He is completely clueless,” you say.

“Let me know if he tries startin’ any trouble,” Darred says. “We’ll put ‘im in line.”

“I have him handled,” you say, shaking your head. “Told him to find himself a real armorer instead of using cheap droid-made shit.”

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred’s eyebrow goes up as he leans against your worktable.

“Bet he didn’ like that at all,” he says with an impish grin.

“Nope,” you say. “Laid him out on his _shebs_. I think he has learned his lesson.”

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred only laughs.

“He’s an Inner Rim boy, ain’t he?” he asks. “It would explain a lot.”

“The hell did he do now?” you ask, your head shooting up.

“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” _Ba’vodu_ Darred says, shaking his head as mirth lights up his eyes. “Buuuut…”

Your heart sinks as he trails off with a snicker. Mando had been given simple, easy to follow orders. There is no way he has fucked it up already. Then again, if he’s anything like your brother… You manage to get your mouth working a moment later.

“What…what is he doing?”

“Well, uhh, he’s feedin’ them by hand. He’s going around to each pen with a big handful of grass. He’s also been scoldin’ them for not takin’ turns properly, like they’re _strille_ or sumthin’.”

Your uncle starts to laugh heartily, his great big belly shaking. You sigh in relief, the images of Mando’s bleeding, severed limbs in the grass fading away. After a second, you shake your head.

“He’s damn fast though,” he continues. “He’s almost done feedin’ them. If he wasn’t Death Watch, I’d consider hirin’ him.”

“Aguilla let him pet her yesterday. He might not be all that bad, you know.”

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred falls silent, mulling over your words. At long last, he nods.

“Even the cows like him,” he mutters. “That damn cat is more trouble than she’s worth, though. Who knows what she might be plottin’ now?”

As if sensing you two had been talking about her, Aguilla comes trotting around the yurt with a questioning yowl. She headbutts _Ba’vodu_ Darred in the shin and continues toward you. You lean over and scratch her behind the ear, smiling at the satisfied purr that escapes her.

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred crouches next to her and holds out one finger sternly. Aguila mews.

“I’m holdin’ you personally responsible for the two of ‘em. They do anythin’ stupid and it’s gonna be your pelt on my floor. Got that, you toothy menace?”

Aguilla gives you a smug loth-cat smile as she _mews_ at _Ba’vodu_ Darred, as if agreeing to become your babysitter. You glare at her.

“Traitor,” you mutter, earning another laugh.

You put the two finished tool heads on the table next to his elbow.

“These will be a real help,” he says. “I’ll hand them out to those who need ‘em most, alright?”

He wraps them in a piece of cloth. His mirth dwindles away, his face becoming stony and serious.

“One more thing, _ad’ika,_ ” he says, with that tone of someone who knows they are delivering bad news. “We heard some news from the family out east. They said the warriors might be comin’ back this week. Apparently, they’ve been doing their collection rounds again.”

Your heart sinks straight into your toes. Then pure fury ignites in your veins.

“They’ve already taken most of our surplus this year,” you hiss, throwing your hammer down onto the table with a sharp clang. “What more can they want from us?”

“I couldn’t tell ya,” he responds. “But…keep an eye out for ‘em, alright? Call us if they do. They’ll probably be comin’ here first for whatever repairs you can make.”

Panic fills you as you think about how many mouths there are to feed and how few barrels you have in storage right now. The root vegetables grown during winter will be feeding your family _and_ the animals. You cannot afford to lose anything else.

“As it stands, we barely have enough to last us through the winter,” you say. “If we lose even a single barrel of grains, we will _starve._ ”

“I know, I know…just be careful,” he says softly. “Please don’t provoke ‘em.” Indignantly, you begin to protest, and he cuts you off with a _look_. “I _know_ your temperament, _ad’ika_. If they do come, just do their repairs and get them out of here as fast as you can.”

You nod. Ever since the _Alor_ had gone off to Mandalore, his _al’verde_ had been growing bolder and crueler. He has already come by three times this season to collect your offerings, taking far more than the agreed-upon fifty percent of the surplus. Now, your family has nothing to sell. You will have no way to buy seeds, repair equipment, or even provide medical care for the animals.

The latter worries you the most. The veterinarian has not been by in months. While you all have been coping the best you can, the animals need proper scans and immunizations to keep them healthy.

“ _Ad’ika_ , we will figure somethin’ out,” _Ba’vodu_ Darred says gently, placing the tools into his bag. “We’ll talk to _Alor_ Pel, see if he can’t refund us or somethin’ before the next season.”

“Alright,” you say quietly. “If they start any shit with me, I will just shoot them. Hopefully, _Alor_ Pel won’t be too angry.”

 _Ba’vodu_ Darred grins.

“Wouldn’t expect anythin’ less,” he says. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, swamping you with the scent of sunlight and grass. “ _Alor_ has never given us a reason to doubt him. He’s always been generous with us.”

You bite down your comment about his taste in leadership personnel and take a half-step back. _Ba’vodu_ Darred pauses to pet Aguilla. She hisses at him and swats his hand away. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Little shit, full of brine and vinegar,” he remarks. “You and Aguilla were made for each other.”

You glower at your _ba’vodu_ as he laughs and continues down the road. Then you shake your head and get back to work. The news that the warriors might be coming back for a third round of collections makes you uneasy. No matter how you look at it, there’s nothing left for them to take, not without starving your family this winter. You gnaw on your lower lip for a few moments before shaking your head. Rumors are rumors, at least until proven true. There is no point in worrying right now. If it happens, it happens, and the heads of the families will lodge complaints.

If there is anything that will light a fire under an _Alor’s_ ass, it is the threat of tradespeople breaking away from his tribe. _Alor_ Pel is a reasonable man, you assure yourself. He will take care of the issue. Slowly, you work yourself out of your panicked state and settle into the rhythm of heating, shaping, and refining. Soon, you are as calm as you had been this morning, and the rumors begin to fade away.

Then you remember.

 _Mando_.

What is he up to now?

You _could_ check on him, or you could trust him. Pursing your lips, you decide to trust him. After setting the third ingot of iron into the flames, you find yourself too curious to contain yourself. You go take a peek around the yurt. Just across the narrow field, you can see Mando grabbing handfuls of grass and handing them to the cows. Most of the field has been cut. Well, as long as he gets the field done, you don’t care how he feeds them.

You don’t know why, but you linger for a few moments, arms crossed across your chest.

The thought of possibly allowing a Death Watch follower into your forge had never crossed your mind, much less letting him work with your animals to pay off his debt to you. The instant he had spoken up, you knew he was from the Inner Rim. You were sure he would have been a lot less eager to work. You had expected disdain for your way of life. Hell, you might have expected a tantrum from someone you assumed was a spoiled city boy.

Sudden shame burns your belly at how quickly you had judged him. You even questioned whether he was Mandalorian because of the white _jai’galaar_ on his pauldron. Yet here he is, having spent the majority of the early morning talking to your chickens and trying to corral them. He has mown most of a field with a scythe to hand-feed the cows like pet _strille_.

You inhale slowly, hold the breath, and exhale slowly.

Being judged harshly is something you are used to, both by the _aruetiise_ and the warrior-clan. Tradespeople – Mandalorians like your family – are the ones who provide support for the frontline, producing the food and goods they need to march into combat to protect your people. Despite this, many of the warrior-clan see tradespeople as leeches and cowards who hide behind warriors to play in the dirt and pet animals. The _al’verde_ had called your family _verde’nibral_. Failed warriors.

You had almost jumped him then and there, opening your mouth to remind him that your father had been so badly injured he was no longer fit for combat. That he had given everything he had to protect his people. But your _ba’vodu_ had restrained you, her fingers digging into your arm so tightly it had left bruises. None of you stood a chance against an entire squad of elite warriors. You had bitten your tongue until coppery blood flooded your mouth, watching as your father handed the offerings over with only a curt smile. _Alor_ Pel had told his _al’verde_ off, but you knew it would not change anything. He would simply repeat his words when no one was there to hear.

Bitter tears had flooded your eyes as you watched their ship disappear with hundreds of kilograms of meat, vegetables, and grains – a full year of backbreaking labor gone in an instant, taken by ungrateful warriors who looked down on those who were not nearly as capable of waging war.

Once more, you repeat your breathing exercises, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders.

You have become so bitter toward those who look down at your way of life that you have allowed yourself to judge Mando unfairly. Your _ba’buir_ would be ashamed of you if she knew these thoughts you were harboring right now. _This is not what the Resol’nare teaches_ , you hear in her ancient, thready voice. The instant you opened your home to him, shared your food and drink with him, and allowed him to sleep next to you, he had become your responsibility.

There is no doubt in your mind that this Mandalorian lacks quite a few braincells, but you see no arrogance or malice in him. You do not see any prejudice in this strange Mandalorian. Right now, you see only a man who has bowed his head to accept your tutelage. You see a man who is eager to prove his worth to you and honor his promise to you.

Mando comes to the last pen. He picks up another handful of grass and begins moving back down, dividing it up as evenly as he can. Even from this distance, you can see the gentility with which he treats the large beasts, as if he fears he will hurt _them_ with his hands.

Then and there, you resolve to do better. Deathwatch or not, he has treated you with respect and courtesy. The least you can do is give him the same in return. He has not given you a reason to believe that he is as prejudiced as the idiots your family works to support.

Hesitantly, Mando reaches out and rubs behind the animal’s ear. When it licks him, he leaps out of the way. One foot slides out from under him and he goes down, sending a cloud of grass clippings up into the air. The nearest cow immediately begins to lick his helmet. Mando tries to scramble out of the way, but his hand slips out from under him and he hits the ground face-first.

When the cow’s tongue follows, trying to lick his boot, you lose your composure. You cannot smother the shriek of laughter that escapes you. You bolt back around the yurt, both hands clamped over your mouth to smother your mirth. It takes a long, long time for you to calm down. When you notice your cat’s judgmental stare, you grin at her.

“He is a strange one, but he seems alright.”

With a feline harrumph, Aguilla turns her nose up, as if to say _I told you so_.

* * *

As the sun begins to set, Mando drags the wash bucket outside. Wearing another spare set of your brother’s clothes, he crouches on the paver and begins working diligently to remove the worst of the dirt and stains out of his garments. You fight hard to hide your amusement as he works on a stubborn patch of green on his elbow. The soap you had given him is good for removing those types of stains, so it only takes him a few minutes to get it off.

Then he goes to load it in the washer for a quick dip in hot water and chemical cleaner. He comes to help prepare the side dishes for dinner. Surreptitiously, you steal quick peeks at him from under your lashes. He does not look the least bit tired, even after a hard day of labor.

This time, you are prepared for him to roll up his shirt sleeves and you avert your eyes, no matter how badly you wish to peek. Your eyes settle on his _shebs_ instead. You take a moment to appreciate him before returning to work. His hands move quickly and confidently with the knife as he slices the vegetables into manageable pieces. Just as you are about to ask how his day had gone, he hisses and drops something into the sink.

“Are you fucking serious?” he spits out. “ _Osik_!”

Your eyes automatically drift to the window. Nothing out of the ordinary. All the chickens are locked up tightly. You turn to him as he lets out a long, self-suffering sigh. His head hangs as he leans over the sink and sticks his hand under the faucet.

“What is it?” you ask.

As he tries to avoid answering you, Aguilla begins to complain about something in the bathroom. Something crashes into the shower, but you ignore it. She is probably rearranging your toiletries to her liking again.

“What is it?” you repeat.

“I cut myself,” he grumbles.

“How?” you ask. Then teasingly, you grin up at him, “On what? The cucumber?”

He lets out a very grumpy huff and looks away, refusing to answer the question. Shaking your head, you lean in to examine his injury. The cut on his index finger is bleeding profusely. He must have hit one of the smaller arteries. You thrust the rag at him and bustle toward the cabinet for the med kit. Grabbing it, you gesture for him to sit down with you. Opening the bag, you pull out the half-empty bottle of bacta spray and a large adhesive bandage.

“Move that, let me see.” He obeys, removing the rag. “Ah, it’s not that deep. I don’t think you will need to see the doctor.”

“That’s good to know,” he sighs. “So, how much are _you_ charging me for this?”

“I think I’ll grant you a one-time waiver,” you say, not missing a beat. “Never met anyone who could cut themselves with a _plastic knife._ ”

He grumbles as you laugh. Reaching out, you grasp his wrist gently, turning it so the wound is in direct light. Steadfastly, you ignore just how soft and warm he is, even though your own pulse is racing. Then you dab the droplet of blood away with a paper towel and douse the wound with a bit of the bacta spray. He hisses quietly, hand jerking reflexively. You keep a firm grip on his wrist.

“It’s only pain,” you say as soothingly as you can manage. “It’ll numb in a second.”

You miss the way he tilts his head ever so slightly. Once it stops bleeding, you gently peel the backing off the bandage. As you wrap his injury, your fingertips brush up against the little callouses scattered across his hand. Then you look up. Whatever you were about to say dies away as you tilt your head all the way back to look at his visor. As you let your eyes drift around his helmet, you note that he still has a bit of grass stuck to his cheek plate.

Silently you reach up to remove the vegetation. Then you flick it away. Before you can speak, Mando places one gentle hand on your wrist. Looking down, you watch as his hands slide up toward your elbow. Tingling gooseflesh erupts in the wake of his palm and your breath quickens, your belly tightening. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and dark and utterly breath-taking.

His hand moves to your waist and he steps closer, the other hand falling to the countertop behind you. Trapping you. Utterly swamping your senses with the devastating confidence of a seasoned hunter, ready to spring and deliver that final fatal blow. He leans in slowly.

Before you can close the distance between your bodies, you hear an indignant screech and a clatter. Turning your head, you see Aguilla by her empty food dish. Judging by the grin on her face, she knows _exactly_ what she has done. She lifts one front foot up and smashes it into the side of the bowl, sending it skittering across the floor. It hits Mando’s foot and breaks the spell between the two of you.

He very swiftly releases you. He practically lunges for Aguilla’s bowl.

“I-I’ll -uh - I’ll get her kibble,” he mumbles, as he scuttles toward the bin in the corner.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Uh. Wet food. I’ll get her wet food – “

You turn to the stasis unit and pull it open with shaking fingers, digging for the plastic container. Mando sets the bowl down on the counter and hurries away, muttering something about checking his clothes outside. Relief fills you. You know Mando is full of shit, but you need a minute to _breathe_ , to regain your control.

How could his mere presence do this to you? How could a single touch erase every single bit of your self-control? Reaching up, you lightly press your fingers to your neck, closing your eyes as you feel your pulse racing under your fingertips. No one else has ever made you feel like this before. Like you have fallen off a cliff into a pool of molten honey. Like your jetpack is malfunctioning. Like the world is spinning too fast and you are about to fly off it.

Aguilla meows, breaking you from your reverie, and you pick up a spoon to get her fed. As you mix the kibble and wet food together, Aguilla butts her head into your knee. You exhale gustily as she mews up at you.

“You know, I really hate you for interrupting,” you say to Aguilla as you crouch to put her bowl down. “I am also very grateful. Thank you, Aguilla. If it had gone further, I would have regretted it tomorrow morning.”

Her little paw comes down on your knee and she rubs her forehead against your chin. You rub the itchy spot under her chin, and she purrs in delight.

Just a few more days, you assure yourself.

You can last just a few more days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations**
> 
> shereshoy – lust for life, enjoying every single day and the experiences it brings, uniquely Mandalorian in that you never know if you are going to live long enough to see the next day.  
> beskar – Mandalorian steel  
> al’verde – commander  
> shebs – ass  
> shabuir – insult, jerk but much stronger (asshole tax)  
> aliik – sigil, symbol on armor  
> jai'galaar - shriekhawk. The symbol on his armor is a diving shriekhawk.  
> di'kut – idiot  
> alor – leader  
> Mand'alor - leader of the Mandalorian people  
> aruetii(se) – outsider(s)  
> ba'buir(e) – grandparent(s)  
> strill(e) – a strill is a Mandalorian animal/pet. Looks like a sack of beef jerky and elbows. Supposedly can fly.  
> verde’nibral – this is a slur against tradespeople I made up, it means ‘failed warrior’.  
> Osik – shit  
> Resol’nare – the six tenets that make up the core of Mandalorian beliefs.  
> bes’bev – Mandalorian flute that has a stabby-stabby end.  
> ba’vodu – aunt/uncle


	3. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Death Watch Mandalorian x Reader, Mar Vizsla x Reader  
>  **Word Count:** ~9000  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Lustful thoughts, h*nd h*lding, mutual pining, City Boy On The Farm, the cat is a massive jerk, Mandalorians being bullies toward other Mandalorians, discussions of Death Watch and their actions as a terrorist group – innocents being caught in the crossfire, etc. Nothing graphic.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** I cut one scene out and then Mando won’t stop talking. Ages are kinda sorta established here? It isn’t important unless you HC him as Paz and Din’s dad the same way I do. I still don’t know anything about blacksmithing, ranching, or farming. Now it’s time to add Death Watch and Mandalorian politics to that list.
> 
> **[Originally posted on tumblr @anxiety-riddled-mando on 11/25/2020.]**

When you open your eyes, everything is dark, save for a tiny sliver of light peeking under your pillow. Groaning, you sit up, blankets falling down around your waist. Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, you inhale the smell of caff, laced with the herbal green notes of _behot_. You wonder if Mando has gotten into your stash of drinks, but a small part of you quashes the notion immediately. He is too polite to snoop.

You check the time to see if you can take a snooze. Unfortunately, you have two minutes until your alarm goes off. Grumbling, you unset it and go to the bathroom to take care of your morning needs. You find Mando in the kitchen, puttering around as if he has always been a fixture here in your home.

He looks like he belongs here.

Quickly, you push that thought aside.

Mando is standing barefoot on the rug, one pantleg rolled up to his knee, the other falling to the middle of his shin. Judging by the things set out on the table, he appears to be working on breakfast.

“You’re up early,” you say, yawning into your fist. “You’re making breakfast today?”

“I know how to make caff,” he says. “I also know how to burn toast.”

You smother your laugh.

“I can handle the rest while you get dressed,” you say kindly.

Before he can speak, Aguilla lets out a wail, and her dish goes flying by, hitting the stove with a loud crack. Aguilla sits down on her rug to wait, giving you a triumphant grin.

“Brat.”

Locking eyes with you, her mouth opens, and she lets out a piercing wail, as if you are responsible for causing all the suffering she has ever experienced in her life.

You roll your eyes as she sneezes and stares up at you expectantly.

“Her Royal Highness beckons,” Mando quips with a little shake of his head.

With a helpless little grin, you go to feed the little terror while Mando grabs the spice box for you. There are times when you wonder what you did or deity you upset to end up with a cat this spoiled and entitled. Even as a kitten, she was over-the-top and dramatic. It has only gotten worse over the years.

As you mix her food, you wonder if she takes joy in being obnoxious.

You would _not_ put it past her.

You crouch to set her bowl down. Aguilla has her face in her bowl before you can even set it down. Quickly, you whisk your fingers out of her way, lest they become part of her breakfast. When you come to take over, Mando slips his boots on and goes outside to fetch his garments off. As the door swings shut after him, you look at your cat.

“You are an utter embarrassment. Why do you insist on theatrics?” you ask her. She shoots you a dirty look over the rim of her bowl as she continues to inhale her food. “What do you think about him?”

Unsurprisingly, she ignores you, but it’s pretty much par for the course when she is eating. Little bits of food fly up as she crunches down the kibble. Well, at least Aguilla cleans up her food messes.

When you peek out through the window, you can see Mando by the chicken pen, fingers wedged through the bars as he scratches the alpha chicken’s head. A scoff escapes you. She’s never let _you_ do that before. Grumbling, you turn back to the pan and scoop a dollop of butter into it, watching as it sizzles and begins to foam. One by one, you start cracking eggs into the pan, tossing the shells into the organic waste bucket.

There is no sense in being jealous, you think to yourself. Even if you had been the one to coax her out of her shell, provide her first meal, and stay up by her side all night when her first clutch of eggs failed to hatch.

Your animals – especially your wretched loth-cat – have a way of weeding out the bad and the predatory individuals you have come across. In the years you have had her, Aguilla has never been wrong. She has warned you about people’s intentions long before you ever sensed anything was off.

Aguilla sits back on her haunches and starts to make _those_ cat noises, the ones you have come to dread.

“If you puke on my rug again, I’m bringing out the slow feeder bowl,” you warn.

Aguilla’s face screws up tightly. She heaves a few more times. Just as you resign yourself to cleaning up her mess, she belches rudely, expelling all the air she had swallowed while inhaling down her breakfast. She ignores your look of disgust.

Once she has cleaned up all the little bits she had flung everywhere, she comes to sniff around for any scraps you might have dropped. Finding none, she sits back on her haunches and eyes you as you start scooping eggs onto the plates.

“Oh, no you don’t,” you warn her. “I’ll give you a bath if you do.”

This time, she gives you a dirty look as she jumps onto the stasis unit. She starts grooming herself lazily just as the door opens and Mando comes inside. He nudges his boots off by the door and slips his feet into his indoor slippers. Correction: your _brother’s_ slippers.

Embarrassment starts to fill you when you realize he has _all_ the laundry in the basket on your hip, including your unmentionables. Before you can tell him off for his audacity, he sets the basket down near the sleeping cushions. Then he comes back.

“Do you know what _behot_ is?” he asks shyly, picking up a container you had not seen earlier.

“Yes, I’ve had it before,” you respond. “Another Mandalorian introduced me to it. It’s nice and strong. I like it.”

Your _mother_ , but he does not need to know that. His helmet tilts slightly to the left. Curiosity? You are not sure.

“Do a lot of Mandalorians come through here?” he asks hesitantly.

“We have regular visitors,” you say. “But…much like you, they prefer to keep their business private.”

“Oh. R-right,” he says. “Uh, I’ll leave the _behot_ by the pot, if you want some. Just scoop…uh, never mind…”

Then, to your immense horror, Mando begins to demolish breakfast.

First, he starts with nearly three quarters of the eggs, four thick slices of generously buttered toast, and potatoes. Then he pours a significant part of the pot of caff straight into your largest cup and adds three scoops of _behot_. After stirring, he carefully balances his meal in his hands and takes off to go eat, toeing the slippers off before going around the divider.

Exhaling slowly, you make a mental note to make even _more_ eggs for breakfast tomorrow. You made eight eggs today and you were still barely getting any of it. Sourly, you glance over at the divider. Maybe you should have made him stay ten days just to make up for the sheer volume of food he is putting away. At least you won’t be feeding him for much longer.

You carefully ignore the wistful pang in your belly as you realize today is his third day of working for you. He’s almost halfway finished. What will he do when you release him from his obligations? Suddenly, the eggs taste bland and dry. You force yourself to finish as much as you can, slipping the last spoonful of eggs into Aguilla’s dish.

She collides with your leg as she comes to investigate your offerings and you shake your head. Mando comes out from behind the screen a few minutes after you finish eating. You put on a second pot of caff to brew while Mando starts working on the dishes. He ignores Aguilla when she starts tugging on his pant leg, plaintive mews escaping her as he dumps a crust of bread into the bucket for the chickens.

“Oh, go find something to eat outside, you little menace,” you say to Aguilla, opening the door.

Aguilla’s ears drop and she lets out a _meeeew_ , giving you her biggest, saddest blue eyes.

“That does not work on me anymore,” you say firmly, pointing outside. “Go do your job and eat vermin.”

She trots outside, ears pricking up as she starts to survey her territory.

“She must be really good at her job for you to put up with her nonsense,” Mando says, watching her through the window.

“She’s damn good at catching and eating everything small enough to fit into her mouth. And she’s a good guard animal.”

“I didn’t know loth-cats were used as guard animals,” he responds, rinsing the soap off the last dish.

“I had no idea she was a guard animal,” you say nonchalantly. “Last person who tried to start something with me ended up needing thirty-six stitches on his thigh. She just barely missed his femoral artery. Any higher and she would have ripped off his…uh….never mind.”

Mando puts the dish into the draining rack.

“Well, I’m glad she didn’t bite me,” he says in a serious tone. “Uhm…I should apologize for…being a _shabuir_ to you.”

“It’s in the past,” you cut off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I was _really_ out of line,” he tries to continue. “It wasn’t fair to take my temper out on you like that.”

“Yes, you were. No, it wasn’t. And you have already been forgiven, Mando.”

He nods slowly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, drying his hands. “You are more gracious than I deserve.”

With that, he reaches for the organic waste bucket, the egg basket, and starts to get his boots on. You smile fondly as he double-knots his laces. Then he heads out, humming a tune you don’t quite recognize, a spring in his step as he goes off toward the chickens.

The alpha is already waiting for him at the gate.

As soon as he gets the gate open, the alpha comes running to him. He kneels and offers a hand. She places the fingers of one hand against his bracer and leans into his other hand for head scratches. With the exception of the rooster – who is currently sulking on top of the henhouse, likely lamenting the loss of his adoring flock – the others come running to Mando for their own head scratchies.

You almost shake your head at how easily he has managed to get into their good graces.

Carefully, you ignore the traitorous part of your mind reminding you that he has charmed his way into your good graces, too. Far faster than anyone else ever has…and with less bloodshed.

Shaking your head, you redirect your attention to the workshop, where you collect your tools and the raw ores. As the family blacksmith, you are responsible for making and repairing most of the tools and equipment needed to keep the tribe fed. Given how much extra work will be needed to simply stay afloat this winter, _everyone_ will need to be working the fields, yourself included. Your mood sours.

Slipping your leather apron on over your head, you tie it at the small of your back, and check the list _Ba’vodu_ Darred sent last night. Glancing through it, you find that you need to make some horseshoes before the ride south begins. You have just enough raw steel to make the shoes. When you rejoin the tribe in a few weeks, you’ll be melting down the old shoes to replenish your supply.

As the forge heats, you pull out enough steel bars to make thirty-six horseshoes – enough for eight animals, plus an extra four in case one of the animals throw a shoe along the way. The trip south only takes eight weeks, but you want to make sure their feet are well protected during the trip.

Checking the notes sent ahead, you cut the lengths of steel bar by hand to ensure each hoof has a properly fitted shoe.

Your family depends on these animals for your very lives. The loss of one animal for even one season would have devastating consequences. Taking an entire day to just make shoes for them is no loss for you or for the family.

While the bars begin to soften in the flames, you begin clamping the forms to your worktable. Many of your ancestors had used these same blocks to provide for their animals, and now they are yours to continue the tradition. One day, you hope to pass them down to your offspring, should one of them show an interest in smithing.

As you pause to get some water, you hear the sound of boots crunching over gravel. _Ba’vodu_ Darred comes into view, wearing his nicest overalls and a button-up shirt. Looks like he is heading into town to deal with something. At least it’s his problem and not yours, you think, as you lift a hand to wave at him. He veers off the main path and comes to join you under the awning, a grin splitting his face.

“Hey, _ad’ika_ ,” he says. “ _Ba’vodu_ Eryn sent some stuff ahead for ya. And Mando too, right?”

He puts a basket of vegetables on the table. Relief fills you – the stasis unit is starting to look a little bare. You aren’t sure you would have lasted much longer without a trip into the market for food.

“The two of you have impeccable timing,” you say, taking off your gloves and face shield.

You peer into the large basket and an appreciative noise escapes you when you see it’s practically overflowing with all your favorites: squash, carrots, a bag of potatoes, and lots of tomatoes.

“There are some beans and other dried goods in the bottom, too,” he adds. “Thought you might be running low. He looks like he can eat.”

“Like a _kriffing_ horse,” you say, a mote of incredulity in your voice. “He must have a hollow leg or something because I do not know where he puts it all.”

“As your _ba’buir_ would say, _he’s a growing boy_ ,” he crows as he mimics your grandparent, flapping his hands exaggeratedly. “ _He needs to eat, or he’ll wither away into dust._ ”

You shake your head as you laugh. Spirits, he had better be glad none of the family are around to hear him mimic _Ba’buir_. He’d find himself in the time out corner with the littlest _ade_ if they heard it.

“I brought these for ya,” he says, pulling a foil-wrapped packet from the bag at his hip. “Hungry?”

Before you can answer, your stomach roars loudly. _Ba’vodu_ Darred has once again spoiled you with a massive stack of his famous scallion pancakes. Hissing, you bounce the piping hot package from hand to hand as it burns your fingertips. Then you peel the foil back, letting out a noise of delight as delicate, fragrant curls of steam start to escape.

“They smell so good,” you say with a grin.

“Like usual,” he quips. “I’m glad I made extra.”

“Me too,” you say, ripping pieces off and stuffing them into your mouth.

“Well, we’ve never had trouble getting you to eat your vegetables,” he remarks. “Even if we have to hide them in bread, hmm?”

Manda, you’ve been craving these for so long!

You’ve been forgetting to ask him for the recipe for as long as he has been feeding them to you. Part of you wonders if you keep forgetting because you want him to hand-deliver one of your favorite snacks. How does he know when you’re hungry? You push the thought aside as you chew the scalding hot bread frantically.

“Need – wehsipee – “ you start to say.

Mortification burns in your belly as a piece of pancake goes flying out onto the grass.

“Looks like someone’s been taking lessons from Aguilla,” he says, shaking his head.

You grimace and chew that last bite up. Swallowing, you put the packet away, sighing as the rumbling in your stomach fades away to something more manageable. You can finish eating when he has gone on his way.

“What are you working on today, _ad’ika_?” he asks.

“Horseshoes,” you say. “Making an extra set just in case. Might be able to sell the extras if we need to.”

“How’s Mando holding up?” he asks, eyes flicking over to the field.

You shrug.

“He’s learning quickly,” you say. “The chickens really like him, especially the alpha.”

“Good to know,” he responds. Then in a quieter tone, he continues, “has he told you anythin’ about why he’s all the way out here?”

“He hasn’t said much about his personal life,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Your other _ba’vodue_ are a bit worried about you letting him sleep out in the toolshed,” he says. “They think he’s going to take advantage of you durin’ a meal or something like that. I told ‘em you could handle yourself, but they asked me to come talk to you.”

You just barely manage to hide your grimace.

Well, as long as no one finds out he has been sleeping approximately one loth-cat away from you, things will be fine. You are certainly no prude, but the _ba’vodue_ can gossip like their lives depend on it. And the last thing you want to deal with is having the Elders breathing down the back of your neck, demanding to know when you plan to _do the right thing_ and _marry that warrior_ and _bring him into the clan_.

“He may not have half a braincell to his name, but he knows his place,” you say dryly. “He isn’t stupid.”

_Ba’vodu_ Darred grins and loops his thumbs through his belt loops. He glances out over the fields, the smile fading a bit at the edges. The grass is already starting to turn that weird shade of purple-brown to signify the start of the cold season. Soon, you will be packing up your yurt and heading south for the more moderate temperatures. There might be some snow, but at least you won’t have to deal with five-meter tall snowdrifts there.

“Any news?” you ask quietly.

The smile melts off his face, a pang filling your stomach as he confirms your worst fears.

“Your _Ba’vodu_ Meena says they’re definitely making their rounds again,” he says tiredly. “Not much we can do but wait and see at this point.”

“ _Shit_ ,” you hiss quietly, ice filling your stomach.

Pure panic begins to fill you as you recall just how bare the storerooms had been _after_ their latest rounds. A heavy hand rests lightly on your shoulder, jolting you out of your whirling thoughts.

“We’ve got some temporary storage containers set up out in the woods. We cover ‘em up with tarps, they should be invisible from the air,” he says. “Do you have anythin’ valuable here you need to make disappear?”

You shake your head, only a bit of the anxiety ebbing away.

“That still isn’t enough to overwinter the animals,” you start to cut in. “And even if we get everyone to plant more, they’ll _see it_ , and – “

“Hey, calm down, _ad’ika_ ,” he says. “Let the old farts figure it out, alright? You stay here and do your job. No point in stressin’ yourself out with somethin’ you can’t do much about.”

You inhale. Then you exhale.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it right now,” you say. “And…as for your other question. I sent what _beskar_ I have ahead with _ori’vod_. I sent most of my money ahead, too. Only have enough for food at this point.”

“Good choice,” _Ba’vodu_ Darred says as he nods. “And your guns – ?”

“Locked up in the safe with my armor,” you say. “Except for this one.”

You pat the blaster tucked inconspicuously into your belt holster, partially hidden under your loose shirt.

“Good,” he says in obvious relief. “Listen, I want you to keep the radio on you, alright? If anything happens…don’t hesitate to call.”

“I understand. I’ll go fish it out tonight.”

“You think if things start gettin’ out of hand, he’ll be willing to help us out?” _Ba’vodu_ Darred asks quietly.

You tilt your head, folding your arms across your midsection.

“If they involve him, he will defend himself.”

There is no way he has gotten that far up the ranks of their organization without being able to fight and lead. What he lacks in intelligence and common sense, he makes up for in combat experience. Nodding to yourself, you think that you can work with that. Then you realize what just flit across your mind and hurriedly push the thought away, hoping that _Ba’vodu_ Darred does not notice the look on your face.

“Well, maybe they will leave us alone,” he chortles out. “And if they don’t, here’s hopin’ Mando is itching for a good fight.”

“I think he’s so bored he is on the verge of picking a fight with his own reflection,” you say, quirking your lips. Even with hours of hard labor, he is still energetic when he comes home in the evenings.

“It’s good t’ know that there’s a warrior under that cheap, droid-made shit,” he quips at you.

You can’t muffle your laugh as you shake your head again.

“Somewhere deep, deep down,” you say.

“I’m gonna head on now,” he says. “Got a lot to deal with in town.”

“Bank?” you ask in a wry tone.

“Bank,” he mutters. “Remember, get your radio, and…let Mando borrow a weapon if things start looking bad, _ad’ika_.” Then he grins. “You know how us Mandalorians love our weapons.”

He waves goodbye and starts whistling a nameless tune as he heads into town. Once he’s out of view, you hurriedly resume stuffing the pancakes into your mouth. Aguilla pokes her head around the partition, meowing curiously at the appearance of Food. She finds the piece of pancake that vacated your mouth and snaps it up.

Well, she’s eaten worse. Especially when you stop and think about the number of dead animals you have found so lovingly on your doorstep. She chirps as she jumps onto the table to watch.

“Alright, alright,” you say sourly. “I’m getting back to work.”

You turn back to the forge and put your protective gear back on. Picking up your hammer and tongs, you fish the metal bars out of the bottom of the forge and begin to shape them around the forms. As you work each shoe into its final shape, you let your thoughts drift a bit.

The news of the warriors making their rounds again makes you _very_ unhappy, but you trust that your family can hide enough food to get through the season. There aren’t many buildings where things can be stored. The warriors know where the buildings are, regardless, and they will probably ransack them _before_ confronting the family.

Disgust fills you. _Alor_ Pel has been away for far too long if the _verde_ are acting like this. Every Mandalorian is provided what they _need_ by the Tribe. Luxuries are not, and it’s become clear that the warriors are indulging their greed, rather than distribute it to the other families who may need more supplies. There is a chance your family might be able to purchase the goods that will be needed for the winter, but someone is going to have to trade their armor to another clan. The thought of losing even more _beskar_ rankles you.

It’s not like there is much left here, anyway. Aside from your armor, you only have one full-sized bar and three ingots of _beskar_. It is not enough to properly helmet your first _ad’ika_ when they come of age. Sure, you could build a _beskar_ core and plate it with something else, but you have no intentions of letting your child walk around in poorly made armor. That is, if you _find_ someone willing to raise your _ade_ with you.

Ugh. You sigh and pause to examine your work on the shoe, running your gloved thumb along the edge. Even thickness, proper curve, and ready for the pin holes to be set. Nodding, you set it aside to soften a little more before you press it.

Glancing out from under the awning, you check the time. The sun hangs high in the clear, cloudless sky.

Everything is quiet.

_Too quiet_.

You realize you haven’t seen hide nor hair – er, bucket – of Mando since this morning. When you poke your head around the canvas partition of your workspace, you see a group of _ade’ika_ standing at the fence. Frowning, you watch as one of your cousins waves at someone in the field.

The field where Mando is supposed to be working.

_Oh no_.

A mote of anxiety fills your stomach. Wiping your hands clean, you go to investigate, images of Mando dead in a puddle of his own blood filling your mind. What you find makes you stop dead in your tracks, foot hovering over the ground as you take in the sight.

“Gods above.”

The words slip out of you before you can stop them. At some point, Mando had gotten hot while working, and had chosen to remedy the situation by removing some of his clothing. He has rolled the top half of his flight suit down and tied the sleeves around his hips, revealing his torso. The delectable expanse of bared skin is not what has caught their attention. Oh no, you would not be so lucky.

What has them – and you – salivating is the fact that his thin, white undershirt is translucent with sweat, clinging to his torso like a second skin. Every single glorious, rippling muscle on his upper body is on full display, slick and dewy with perspiration. Holy _kriff_ , you think, eyes dropping hungrily toward the front of his pants, where you can just see a hint of his –

Your cousin waves at him again. Mando looks up and you break yourself from your disrespectful staring, trying to quell the searing ache between your legs at his magnetic presence. He tilts his helmet, glances at you, and then approaches the fence. He holds the scythe against his chest, as if that will protect him from the little monsters. Alira melts in delight, giving him a grin like a loth-cat that’s gotten into the cream. You hurry over to keep the little _di’kut_ from saying something embarrassing.

“What can I help you with?” he asks hesitantly.

“Are you a _real_ bounty hunter?” Alira coos.

“Uh. No,” he says. “That’s…that’s not my thing.”

He looks at you and straightens up. He almost looks relieved with your presence.

“I have a lot of work to do,” he trails off.

“Wanna teach us how to shoot?” Alira interjects, fluttering her eyelashes up at him.

Little shit, you think incredulously. What _has_ she been learning at the _aruetii_ school?

“Uh…well, uhm,” Mando stutters out, looking in your direction, as if to ask for help. “I’m not sure…”

You cut in – as the adult here, you should have put a stop to this the instant you saw them behaving so disrespectfully toward him. As you step forward, they _finally_ notice your presence, and they all exchange worried looks.

Good, they _should be_ worried that you will tell their _buire_ on them.

“You all head home _right now_ ,” you say firmly, resting one hand lightly on your hip.

“But – “ Alira starts to whine at you.

“Do you want me to call your parents over?” you ask, sticking strictly to basic. “I’m sure they would just _love_ to hear about you loitering here instead of doing your schoolwork.”

Alira’s face goes white. Just like that, the crowd scatters like leaves in the wind. They scamper up the footpaths to their own yurts, only occasionally looking back to see if you are still watching them. You wait until the last one disappears indoors before turning back to Mando. His posture radiates confusion.

“Why did they want shooting lessons? With me?”

You lift a brow at him. Surely, he noticed them all staring at him like he is the last serving of _uj’ayali_ in the _karyai_. How had he not noticed _you_ staring at him? Or is he vain enough to be fishing for compliments? Then again, he’s probably clueless. You decide to tease him a bit and ignore the insistent throbbing between your legs.

“They wanted to admire the view, Mando,” you say dryly, resting your elbow on the fencepost, your chin in your hand. It takes serious effort to _not keep enjoying the view_. Through sheer stubborn will, you keep your eyes on his helmet, admiring the nice blue color you find there.

His head turns to the field and nods in agreement.

“Yeah, this place is really nice,” he says. “I can see why they like it here.”

A small smile crosses your face at the confirmation that this man is utterly clueless to his own attractiveness.

“There is plenty of wide open space to settle down and raise a family,” he continues.

His words fill you with an odd pang.

Death Watch Mando, wanting to settle down and raise a family of his own? You did not think that they _could_ enter relationships or have children. For a moment, you wonder if he is defecting from the organization. A tiny tendril of hope fills you. Maybe he has learned that there are other ways in life? That he might be able to find his own path later?

The thought of what kind of _buir_ he might be interests you far too much.

“What?” he asks, almost defensively.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask, deciding to broach the subject with him.

“You can ask whatever you want,” he responds. “Just be aware that I may not answer you.”

You shrug in response.

“Fair enough,” you say. “This is the ass-end of the galaxy. Why are you here, Mando? No ship, no money, and barely a thing to your name?”

His entire body tenses up and his helmet turns down sharply at you. Cold replaces the humor and arousal, and you realize you had certainly overstepped your place.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his voice holding the edge of hostility.

Huh, that had been a really dumb and aggressive way to ask that. You continue forward. Might as well stick both feet into your mouth. No sense in leaving a job half-finished, you suppose.

“Your handler should have sent someone to pick you up a long, long time ago.”

“That is none of your concern,” he snaps, turning away sharply, reaching for the scythe. “Mind your own business, _blacksmith_.”

You can almost see the wall of ice go up between the two of you. Hoping to salvage the situation, you blurt out the first thing on your mind.

“I am only curious,” you say. “I meant nothing by it.”

“Curiosity killed the loth-cat,” he growls.

You duck under the post and approach.

“Mando,” you repeat. “I mean no harm. I – “

He whirls around, jabbing one finger in your direction.

“I told you to mind your own business,” he says flatly, looming over you, trying to intimidate you. “Yes, I am Death Watch. Yes, I have done terrible things. If you know what’s good for you, you will _back off_ and _stop pestering me_.”

With each sentence, he inches closer and closer until the tip of his finger hovers right over your sternum. Looking down at his gloved finger, you act impulsively. You reach up and wrap your fingers around his, squeezing gently. Then you carefully guide his hand down.

“Mando, I’m not judging you,” you say softly.

“Then why did you even bother asking me that?” he asks.

His tone is still angry, but it has lost the rage. In true Mandalorian fashion, you speak from the heart, even if what you have to say is kind of…uh. _Forward_.

“I…I was worried that something might happen to you.”

You hear his inhalation. Mortification fills you as you hurriedly try to explain.

“I know we’ve only known each other for a few days, but I…uhm,” you stutter out, tripping over your words. “I like you.”

Shit, _shit_ , _SHIT_ you are making everything _WORSE_.

“You – you like me?” he asks.

Gods, did his modulator just squeak? You get even more flustered, trying to escape the situation. He is faster than you, and his hand darts out to grasp the edge of your apron. He pulls you toward him gently and pure mortification fills you as _you let him_. You almost ignite on the spot as you remember the gentle strength of his hands as he touched your arm last night. His posture becomes pleading and vulnerable.

“You-you’re a decent man,” you stutter out.

“Why-why would you say that?” he asks softly. “You barely know me.”

Flustered, you turn your face away. He probably thinks you’re an idiot now.

“Uhm…Aguilla likes you a lot,” you mutter. “So do the chickens.”

“Oh.”

You almost don’t hear his quiet exhalation, as if he is disappointed. He starts to pull away, and a swoop of something anxious hits you right in the gut. You didn’t mean to imply that he was important only because of the chickens, but you’re not even _sure_ what you meant by liking him – !

“Mando, that’s not – not what,” you blurt. “What I mean to say is that I…I don’t want you…to be hurt. If anyone comes after you.”

He stays quiet for several long moments.

“I can take care of myself…,” he whispers. “Please don’t worry about _me_.”

Shyly, you nod, still unable to work up the courage to look up at him. He releases the scythe, and it falls to the ground. Neither of you give it a second look as he reaches up gently, flooding you with the scent of leather and grass. You’re helpless to do anything as he tilts your face up to his. Your heart starts to pound, filling your ears with a thunderous noise, as you finally meet your own eyes in his inky-black visor.

“If anyone…bothers you…I could…I could take care of you, too,” he stammers. Then he back-pedals almost immediately. “Uh. If…if you wanted my help, I’d never assume…you’re-you’re capable, it’s just that – you…”

Before you can respond, you hear Aguilla’s reproachful _mraaawr_. Mando and you take a step back without further complaint from the loth-cat. In that moment of weakness, you lose your internal battle and steal a peek at him. Hungrily, you let your eyes linger on his muscular backside as he bends over to pick up the scythe. Fortunately, you manage to get your eyes back up to where they belong by the time he gets back up.

“I’ll…uh…finish with stuff,” you say to Mando.

“Yeah, good idea,” he says in a rush. “Work. On the grass.”

You nod in agreement. Then you flee under the fence post, daring to sneak a peek at him, wondering if he’s doing the same under that helmet of his. Does he feel that, too? That inexorable _pull_ that makes your knees threaten to give out? The blistering heat that burns away every rational thought in your head every single time you make contact with him?

Aguilla _mraows_ , swatting your shin with her paw as if to tell you to _keep moving_. Once you start widening the distance between the two of you, you find you can actually breathe now. The adrenaline wears starts to wear off and your fingers tingle a bit. Back in your workspace, you take a moment to catch your breath.

Aguilla plops down on the ground between you and the pasture, physically blocking you from returning to Mando. She grooms her paw quietly, ice-blue eyes fixed on you.

You go back to work, trying to rid yourself of the mental image of Mando’s nearly naked torso. The sweat glistening on his shoulders. The deadly grace with each pull of the scythe through the grass. The strength radiating from every rippling muscle. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself, but it is in vain. Nothing you do can keep your thoughts from immediately focusing on the mysterious warrior out in the field.

Horseshoes. You need to finish the horseshoes.

That distraction works for about thirty seconds. When you mess up for the third time, you slam your tools down. Resting your hands on your anvil, you try desperately to control yourself. Then you give up. There’s no point in continuing if you are so distracted – there’s a real possibility that you will end up burning yourself or breaking something valuable. Turning the equipment off, you pick up the small items and take them indoors.

Glancing around, you see some dust starting to gather in the corners. Then you nod to yourself. You can clean. Cleaning is easy. Picking up the broom, you get started, sweeping the little bits of dust and mountains of Aguilla’s silvery-white fur into one neat pile.

Even with that busy work, you find yourself unable to think of anything but Mando and his circumstances.

* * *

That night, when you’re settled in bed, you stare up at the canopy. Mando turns onto his side and you casually glance over at him. You can just barely see his hand under the curtain. You look back up at the roof, ignoring the insistent throb that has been plaguing you all afternoon. Kicking the blanket off your legs, you adjust your pillow, and turn to face him, imagining what he might look like.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks softly, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Too warm,” you say grumpily.

He makes a noise of agreement. Outside, you can hear the blood-birds singing, calling out to one another as they seek their prey. The soft chirp of insects. The wind whipping against the canvas walls of the yurt. Quiet, yet noisy at the same time.

Aguilla lets out warble as she turns onto her back. Then she starts to snore, her back leg bobbing as she dreams of chasing something. You are just about to turn on your other side when he speaks up.

“Can I ask you something?”

You almost parrot his earlier words back at him, but you figure that it would not be a good idea, given the fact that he’s been quiet and withdrawn all evening. He barely ate anything at dinner, leaving you with a massive pot of stew to put away. Truthfully, you don’t want to risk damaging what little friendship still remains between the two of you.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

He hesitates for a moment.

“How…how did you know I would have a handler?” he asks.

You think carefully. He would be irredeemably unobservant if he hasn’t picked up on all the little clues you’ve dropped over the past few days. There’s no reason an _aruetii_ would know anything about Death Watch, aside from the bare bones. Most Mandalorians would not know about how their organization works in the first place.

You decide to go with honesty.

“I have heard stories about Death Watch.”

“What…what kinds…of stories?”

“Some of the stories paint Death Watch as a resistance group,” you say, trying to explain it from an _aruetii’s_ point of view. “The ruler apparently wanted to adhere to a path of pacifism? And Death Watch didn’t like that, so they decided to overthrow her and install a new ruler in her place.”

Silence.

You take that as an invitation to continue.

“Some of the stories say that Death Watch is a terrorist organization,” you continue. “That they’ll kill innocent people if it means furthering their cause. They’ll kill Mandalorians for not agreeing with their interpretation of the six tenets.”

_Probably_ should not have let that last part slip out, but you don’t think he noticed.

“Where do you think I fall?” he whispers, and in his words, you can hear his heart shattering.

You don’t want to hurt him, but you can’t lie. If he’s on the run, it means he’s done something bad. Something that has fueled that guilt and self-hatred that you can hear in his voice. Your throat tightens to the point of pain and your pulse skyrockets at the implication your words will have.

“…somewhere in the middle,” you say hoarsely.

He exhales shakily.

“You’re right.”

The world falls out from under you, and you have to dig your fingers into the cushion beneath you to steady yourself. What has he done? Who has he harmed? How _many people_ \- ?

“There are five divisions to Death Watch, each party with its own set of rules and beliefs. My parents were fervent supporters of the most extremist sect…I was born into this. The ones who truly believed in returning the Mandalorian people to the way of waging war and forcibly converting their conquests…and killing those who refuse to su-submit…”

Oh, _gods_.

It takes effort to not simply start crying then and there as you realize he is the child of a dangerous cult, one that will not hesitate to cut down every member of your family for refusing to wage war on innocents. Pressing your hand to your mouth, you close your eyes, feeling as the tears burn hot tracks down your cheeks. Revulsion fills you, and you want nothing more than to scream at him.

You want to scream at him for being so gentle and kind to your animals when he likely has the blood of innocents on his hands. You want to scream at him for being so endearing when he is the reason your people are fighting amongst themselves, throwing your futures into absolute chaos. Swallowing, you take a slow, deep breath to calm yourself. _Ba’buir_ said to not jump to conclusions.

He’s telling you this for a reason. You can listen to what he has to say first. Then…you decide what you do with him next.

“Mando,” you whisper softly.

“My first helmet was like this one. I was six when I had to start covering my face. I couldn’t take it off in front of anyone. Parents, siblings, _spouse_. Once I put this on, _I_ disappeared. _I_ ceased to exist,” he says. Under the edge of the curtain, you see him pick his helmet up. “I never had a choice…not until they promoted me to lieutenant…when one reaches the rank of lieutenant, it means they are allowed to leave the compound without an escort. Someone to monitor them, keep them in line…keep them from asking questions.”

He sighs, putting the helmet back down with a quiet _thunk_.

“I was a lieutenant by sixteen. My parents were so proud,” he says bitterly. “My first solo mission was to destabilize a small settlement. It took me nearly three years to get the right people into place. To fabricate the evidence I needed to accuse the governor of misappropriating funds. When I broke that gas main…and set the building on fire…everything fell into place…it all went straight to hell and I left, I ran away from what I did.”

_Please no_ , you beg quietly, fresh tears filling your eyes.

“H-how many people - ?” you break off, unable to finish the sentence.

If he says even one, your heart will shatter into a million tiny pieces. Reflexively, you hold your breath, readying yourself for the blow you think you might never recover from.

“No one,” he says immediately. “It was a no-loss operation, that I swear to you.”

You don’t know if you can believe him, but then, Aguilla sticks her paw under your curtain and places it against your arm.

“I made sure the building was empty, that it was far enough away from everyone else. I planned the explosion for a holiday weekend,” he says. “I checked every room myself twice. I sealed the doors, I did everything…” He breaks off and chokes. “I couldn’t, you have to understand, I couldn’t…imagine myself…hurting one of the people I had befriended…the people who took me in as their own.”

Aguilla kneads your arm, squeezing all four fingers around your forearm. You swallow as she purrs. It almost sounds like she is trying to cajole you into listening to what Mando has to say. Is she wrong about him? _Can_ she be wrong?

She has never failed you before. She has only ever protected you, even drawing blood to give you the time you needed to get to your blaster. She has driven away predators five times her size to protect your home.

Aguilla has made it clear she will lay her life down for you without hesitation.

And here she is. Stretched out on her side between you and Mando, calm and relaxed, as if _this_ is how it has always been. You, her, and Mando. _Together_. A tiny flicker of hope takes root in your heart as you stare into your cat’s ice-blue eyes.

In that moment, you _know._ You know that she is not leading you astray.

“And then what happened?” you ask hoarsely.

“My handler picked me up and took me back home,” he says. “My parents were unhappy with how long it took, but when the captain complimented me on not causing a single death…they relented. They let us celebrate. I got commendations and my first piece of _beskar_ as a reward.”

“So…how did you end up here?”

“I was supposed to go to Arvala-2 and do the same thing there. Except they said they wanted it done in one year, and they didn’t care how many lives…needed to be…to be sacrificed. For the _greater good_.”

He pauses, and you hear him inhale shakily.

“I got most of the planning done. Built…built the explosive devices…and when it came time to blow up the dam…I couldn’t do it,” he says, his voice breaking. “I just couldn’t do it. From the moment I got this damn helmet, I hated it, I hated nearly everything that had been taught to me…I hated being nothing more than a faceless, nameless _pawn_.”

“What did you do with those explosives?”

He sniffles quietly.

“I found an old shack out in the middle of nowhere,” he says. “Stuck all my gear in there, shot the place up and made it look like I was ambushed. I cut my arm open and made it look like I had been wounded…Then I blew the building up and ran. Been running ever since, trying to hide this fucking _jai’galaar_ and forget any of this ever happened.”

You hear him scratching at his pauldron, likely flaking off whatever grime he had allowed to accumulate there. He did not kill anyone, yet his actions brought innocent people harm. Threw their lives into chaos. He lied to them, betrayed them by pretending to be someone he isn’t. _Did_ he deserve absolution from any of this?

Sadly, you cannot answer that question.

“You must think I’m a coward,” he says bitterly. “For spending months of my life running and hiding like a sand rat.”

“Turning your back to your family, your Tribe…your way of life…so you could try to protect innocents from Death Watch insanity…Mando…I think that took a lot of courage and heart,” you whisper. “Do you believe any of their…teachings?”

“The only think I believe in is a free Mandalore,” he says quietly. “Where all citizens are free to live their lives as the wish – citizens, warriors, or tradespeople. They choose their destiny. Not their ruling body. Not an _outsider_.”

He lets out a shaky exhalation.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I really should not have said any of that. I don’t know why I said any of that, just forget it – “

You roll onto your belly and reach out, sliding your hand under the curtains. When your fingers touch his palm, he jerks away. Then he reaches out, wrapping his fingers around yours, utterly engulfing your hand with his.

“Mando,” you cut in gently. “Mando…I don’t hate you for your past. But I don’t know how to…how to deal with any of this. I only know three things in life – blacksmithing, chickens, and dealing with that damn cat. I don’t hate you, but…I’m not sure I have the experience…the maturity…to…see this objectively. To make a wise decision, one that won’t backfire on me, or on you…”

He is quiet, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand. A mind-numbing tingle of electricity arcs up your arm and straight into your heart as you feel the rough callouses under your fingers, evidence of his hard work. How could something so innocent make you shake like this? Breathless and giddy, your heart filling with something so vast and terrifying that it threatens to swallow you whole?

Your entire body _tingles_ , a wave of goosebumps breaking out on your arm as he squeezes so very gently. His fingers hold you in a gentle grip, but you can feel the strength behind them. You wonder what his hands might feel like around your waist as he holds you close. Curling you into that warm place in his arms, your face against his broad chest as he presses his forehead against the top of your head.

His other hand comes down on yours, his fingers fidgeting with one of yours, pointer finger tracing along the sinews in the back of your hand. As he reaches your wrist, you draw in a choked breath, smothering it with your pillow the best you can. Aguilla stretches out, her back foot conveniently pushing your hands apart.

If you hadn’t been biting down on your tongue so hard, you would have whined at the loss of his heat. Part of you wants to push Aguilla’s foot out of the way, but deep down, you know it is too soon. You are both emotionally compromised right now. It would be wrong to let him continue, to let yourselves become invested in something that may not last past the end of the week when he is no longer indebted to you.

_Maybe he will stay_. Before you can entertain that thought any further, Aguilla gets to her feet, and worms her way under his curtain.

“Hey,” he says softly to her. “What do you want, Aguilla? I don’t have anything for you to eat.”

Incredulously, you watch as the little monster just…crawls…into his arms, purring like a tiny engine. An unexpected tendril of jealousy fills you. Not only has your cat abandoned you, she has crawled into bed with someone you have come to appreciate very much. You indulge grumpiness for just a moment before pushing it away.

If anyone needs her right now, it’s Mando. He is clearly in need of comfort – comfort _you_ cannot provide, not without fanning those smoldering embers of physical desire. Think with your brain, you tell yourself firmly.

You pull your arm to yourself, tracing your fingers over the back of your still-tingling hand. You _need_ to calm down before you do something that you will _both_ regret. And regret…is something you do not want any more of right now. Not with someone who makes you feel the way that Mando does. He is worth waiting for, you think giddily to yourself.

“…I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. “I’m lost…”

You think for a moment, gnawing on your lower lip.

“My uncle is smarter than the two of us put together,” you say quietly. Steadying yourself, you continue. “I’m…I don’t think I can be impartial right now, Mando. My uncle can. He can give you the advice I can’t.”

“I’m Death Watch,” he says softly, bitterly. “I’m not the type of person _anyone_ should want in their family’s home.”

“He won’t judge you, or mistreat you, or anything like that,” you say immediately. “Uncle Darred is one of the kindest people I know. He will listen to you, and he will tell you the truth. He will never lie to you.”

“Do you think it would help?” he asks softly. “Would he understand what my _buire_ did to me?”

“Yes, I think it would,” you say without hesitation. “He has been through a lot. If there is anyone who will understand, it’s him.”

Mando stays quiet for a long time. You’re on the verge of asking if he is sleeping when he finally responds.

“I’ll give it a try,” Mando rasps out. “I’ll talk to your uncle.”

Relief fills you, washing away the tension that had filled your entire body.

“I’ll take you to him first thing tomorrow morning,” you say. “He’s probably going to need help with the calves…”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mando says.

“Also…uhm, don’t tell him…that you’re actually sleeping in the house. He thinks you’re sleeping out in the shed…”

Mando laughs. 

It’s a noise you could listen to for the rest of your life.

“What, will you get in trouble?” he asks with a teasing laugh. “Not allowed to have a friend spend the night?”

You frown at him, though he cannot see it.

“I won’t get in trouble, and I’m free to have whomever I want here. I’m a grown woman,” you respond in annoyance. “But I don’t want to fuel any of the gossip, Mando.”

He quiets down.

“I can understand your hesitancy, then,” Mando says. “If it’s one thing my people are good at, it’s gossiping.”

You smile at his words. The poor thing has no idea. You wonder if your clueless warrior will realize you are Mandalorian on his own, or if you will need to tell him yourself. Turning onto your back, you stare up at the canopy, and a frown descends onto your brow. Based on this afternoon…hmm.

He may need you to spell it out for him in big, bright letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations**
> 
> shereshoy – lust for life, enjoying every single day and the experiences it brings, uniquely Mandalorian in that you never know if you are going to live long enough to see the next day.  
> beskar – Mandalorian steel  
> behot – herb used in beverages, mild antiseptic, stimulating. Mandos live life on the edge, doubling up on their stimulants.  
> al’verde – commander  
> shebs – ass  
> shabuir – insult, jerk but much stronger (asshole tax)  
> di'kut – idiot  
> alor – leader  
> Mand'alor - leader of the Mandalorian people  
> aruetii(se) – outsider(s)  
> ba'buir(e) – grandparent(s)  
> verde’nibral – this is a slur against tradespeople I made up, it means ‘failed warrior’.  
> Osik – shit  
> Resol’nare – the six tenets that make up the core of Mandalorian beliefs.  
> ba’vodu(e) – aunt(s)/uncle(s)


	4. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Count:** ~8800  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Lustful thoughts, h*nd h*lding, mutual pining, City Boy On The Farm, the cat is a massive jerk, the cat knows more than she should, Mandalorians being bullies toward other Mandalorians, discussions of Death Watch and their actions as a terrorist group – innocents being caught in the crossfire, etc. **Also, this chapter deals with farm animals being raised for food, slaughter, and what the byproducts are used for in very clinical terms. I’m not going into gory detail, but I think Mando needs to know where his food comes from.**  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Sorry for the delay but this chapter was a lot harder to write than expected and Real Life kicked my ass so. Here we are.
> 
> **[Originally posted on tumblr @anxiety-riddled-mando on 01/11/2021.]**

The next morning comes far too quickly. For a few moments, you lay there, the blankets drawn up just under your chin, trying to draw out a few more minutes of warmth. Aguilla has wormed her way under the blanket at your feet, her back legs hanging out between the cushions.

You and Mando had stayed up far too late last night, talking about his life as a Death Watch soldier.

It breaks your heart to think of what he had gone through as a child. He had grown up knowing that he was only a pawn. That the love his parents had for him was conditional on his ability to serve the leadership. Even now, your stomach turns at the thought of treating a child in that manner. This…explains a lot, you think, as you turn your head to look at Mando. From what you have pieced together, he’s not that much older than you. Maybe a few years, no more than five. For all his toughness as a warrior, there’s still that part of him that is vulnerable.

Even now, it still astounds you that he has been able to function on his own with what has happened to him. You wonder how he hasn’t broken from the soul-crushing loneliness. You get out of bed twenty minutes ahead of schedule and go get dressed for the day.

Out in the kitchen, you spot dark, dense-looking grey clouds on the horizon. Looks like it’ll be rain tonight or tomorrow. Hopefully, the rain will hold off until the cattle are dealt with. In one of the bins, you find your data pad and send _Ba’vodu_ Darred a short message.

_Need help with the cattle? Mando could use someone to talk to._

He responds in the positive, so you acknowledge his message and go to get started on breakfast. Aguilla lets out another snore that could wake the dead. How Mando can sleep through that racket, you do not know. Quietly, you make up her breakfast and put it on the floor to await Her Royal Highness.

For the two of you, today’s breakfast consists of _ten_ eggs. Perhaps you will go to work with a full stomach today, rather than have to come in for a mid-morning snack. As you work, you watch the sun’s rays slowly peek over the mountain range to the west, golden tendrils of light outstretching across the violet sky. A sudden melancholy fills you. There have been so many sunrises like this one over the past years. How many more will you have? Shaking your head, you resolve to focus on _today_.

Mandalorian or not, it’s too early to consider how many _tomorrows_ you have left.

Slowly, the plains come to life, insects and birds taking flight. The alpha chicken lifts the henhouse door and lets herself out, much to your annoyance. Oh well. At least she hasn’t figured out the bars on the coop doors. After washing the potatoes, you start cutting them into chunks.

At the sound of the knife on the cutting board, Aguilla abruptly stops snoring. Three seconds later, she comes trotting around the curtain, ears held high at the promise of food. When she comes to her bowl, she sits down and opens her mouth to tantrum.

“Look in the bowl,” you interrupt.

Aguilla’s mouth snaps shut as she obeys. When she sees her food, her ears go back, and she leans in to sniff it. She looks up, giving you a questioning _mew_.

“Yes, there’s food waiting for you,” you say. “ _Eat_.”

Aguilla sniffs and her head dips down. She begins to scarf down her food. You roll your eyes.

“You complain when I’m late, you complain when I’m early,” you mutter. “There’s no pleasing you, is there, you little menace?”

The loth-cat doesn’t respond. As you stir the potatoes in the pan, you hear Mando starting to wake up. Predictably, he curses as he realizes he’s late and goes rushing by in those too-tight pajamas to get the clothes off the line. From the window, you watch him tend the laundry. Shaking your head, you go back to season the potatoes, adding a spoonful of spices.

Food should be as vibrant and varied as life. And there’s nothing worse than dull, flavorless food.

Your thoughts drift. There are two things you need to do today, but they’re the hardest – finish the horseshoes and get ready to process the week’s dairy. Tonight is the final milking before the trip south. From then on, the milk goes straight to the calves so they can fatten up on the journey. Everything that you have collected in the past week will be made into butter and clarified. The rest will be set aside to make soft cheese.

Not only that, you need to work on his leather harness. You’ve been sketching ideas out in your head, and you think you have a good idea. All you need to do is measure him and figure out the attachment points and belts.

“What can I do to help?” Mando asks, breaking you from your musing.

“We’re actually ahead of schedule,” you say with a smile. “I have not even started thinking about lunch and dinner.”

“Do I get a vote?” he asks in a joking sort of tone.

“Beans?” you quip back, remembering how he had demolished the pot of beans a few days ago. He laughs.

“Yes, please,” he says.

“Beans it is.”

Thank goodness _Ba’vodu_ Darred had dropped off those dried goods yesterday. Even with that addition, you are going to need to go get more before the trip south. Mando goes to the stasis unit and starts fishing out ingredients as you call them out to him. Once everything is cooked and plated, he takes his generous portion behind the curtain.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” he asks.

“Plans,” you murmur.

His voice sounds so familiar, yet so different without his helmet in the way. An odd weight settles in your stomach at the intimacy of speaking with him like this – only a panel of semi-sheer fabric separating you from each other.

“Your uncle,” he trails off, and you nod.

“He needs help with the cattle,” you respond quietly. “We need to cull the young bulls from the herd.”

He doesn’t respond. You figure he’s lost in his thoughts, just as you were earlier.

“My uncle also said that the last four calves were born last night.”

“That’s good, right?” he asks. “More little ones?”

“Yeah,” you continue. “We give them three days to find their legs and we move south.”

Aguilla scratches at the door with an impatient _chrrr_. Automatically, you get up to open it before she starts clawing at the frame. She tears off into the grass, sending a flock of sleepy bloodbirds winging into the sky.

“Tonight, we’ll be milking the cows,” you say. “Tomorrow, we will be processing it into butter and cheese.”

Peeking over at the sheer curtain, you can just barely see his silhouette moving behind it, and you wonder how this stranger had become part of your life in only a few days. Not years, nor months, nor even weeks. _Days_. And already, it feels so right to have him here by your side.

_Stop_ , you tell yourself.

Letting yourself get this attached to someone you barely know is the stupidest idea of all stupid ideas to have ever existed. And as a Mandalorian with several older siblings, you have been privy to _many_ stupid ideas over the years. How could you – the voice of reason and logic in a family of hot-headed Mandalorians – have let this happen? Gnawing on your lower lip, you do your best to avoid thinking about the fact that he will be leaving in just over three days.

_It’s going to be so quiet without him here_.

“I always wondered how butter is made.”

“It’s easy,” you respond automatically. “You just agitate it a lot.”

“But milk is a liquid, and butter is a solid.”

You can hear the confusion in his voice.

“The fat molecules clump together after a while. Then you wash it and add salt.”

He hesitates. Then in a shy voice, he asks, “won’t washing it make it dissolve again?”

“Fat is hydrophobic,” you respond. “It doesn’t like mixing with water.”

“Huh, that makes sense,” Mando says. “You learn something new every day.”

You really will miss him when he does leave.

Three days to enjoy this magnificent idiot and his company. A part of you is unreasonably angry at him for charming his way into your life. The other part of you is unreasonably angry at yourself for letting him in so easily. What is it about him that makes your defenses fall away? Or makes you feel like you’ve found something you never knew you were missing? Something in your heart has shifted and you know it’ll never be the same. Your breath catches in your throat at the magnitude of that implication. Firmly, you redirect yourself away from those thoughts. Deep down, you _know_ what the answers to your questions are, but you are not ready to know right now.

So, rather than face it head-on, you start thinking about safe topics. Chickens. Chores. Milk. And slowly, your heart race returns to normal and that shaky feeling dissipates, leaving you feeling like a wrung-out sponge. You find you aren’t as hungry as you had been. You force yourself to choke down the rest of your food. It tastes like ash on your tongue. He comes back around the curtain as you are scraping the scraps into the waste bucket. As expected, his plate is completely clean.

Your eyes flick down to his flight suit, where you can see traces of breakfast caught in the creases of the fabric. Absently, you reach up and brush the breadcrumbs off. You just barely touch him, but his chest is firm, like steel bands encased in velvet. You smile up at him and start to scold him for eating so sloppily. Whatever you are about to say dies when you see just how close he is, his forehead a handspan away from yours.

For just a moment, you wonder what it would be like to press your forehead to his. Would he accept a kiss from you? Maybe, he would wrap his arms around you, hands clutching you possessively against himself. Maybe he would –

_Oh._

He dips his head down, leaning in just a bit, as you rest your hand on his chest, feeling his heart thrumming under your fingertips. You hold your breath, tilting your head up, waiting for the cool press of his helmet against your skin, and –

Then there’s a thud and the door rattles in its frame. Reality comes crashing back down around you in the form of Aguilla’s indignant scream. With the moment broken, you and Mando break apart from each other. He almost drops his plate as he backs away, and you slam your hip into the table to give him space. You lunge for the door and wrench it open.

Oh _no_.

“Aguilla, no!” you say, but she ignores you, as usual.

She trots over to Mando and drops a very dead bloodbird at his feet. Fortunately, Mando looks _down_ before stepping forward, and avoids making the mess worse. He slams back up against the stasis unit, his entire body radiating revulsion at her gory offering. Aguilla sits back on her haunches, watching him expectantly.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s trying to feed you,” you blurt.

At his reluctance to share in her successful hunt, Aguilla picks up the dead animal and drops it directly onto his foot with a wet splat.

“ _What do I do_?” he asks in a strangled tone.

You swoop in to help Mando.

“Oh, yummy,” you say, grimacing as you pick it up. “Thank you, Aguilla. I’m glad you are here to provide for us poor, useless humans.”

Aguilla lifts her nose into the air and meows in agreement. Satisfied with the acceptance of her offering, she goes off to her water dish. As quickly and subtly as you can, you stuff the dead bloodbird into the organic waste bucket. Mando grabs the bucket and takes off without another word, knowing exactly what to do with it. As you scrub the blood off your hands, she pokes her head around the cabinet and chirps curiously.

“Delicious,” you tell her. “That was the perfect way to start the day.”

She meows and waits by the door leading to the workspace, as if reminding you that you have things to do.

“I’m coming,” you say irritably, “Can’t even catch a break around here…”

Pulling the apron on, you tie it at your waist, and collect your hammer from the hook on the support beam.

“Brat,” you mutter at Aguilla as she takes her place on top of the cabinet.

She doesn’t acknowledge you as she settles in, resting her head on her paws, eyes tracking your every movement.

* * *

Darred watches as Mando strides up the path toward the holding pens. For a while now, there’s been this weird feeling in his gut every time he sees Mando. It has never been a bad feeling, just one that’s been telling him to keep an eye on this young man. Darred doesn’t know if it’s because Mando is a newcomer, or if it is because he is spending his time with you – one of his _ba’vodu’ade_. Darred is still unhappy that you are letting him sleep out in the toolshed, but you are a grown woman, and you can handle yourself. As Mando comes to the gate, Darred puts out his cigarette, and goes out to meet him.

“Hey there, friend,” Darred says in his warmest voice. “Ready to work?”

“Yes, sir,” Mando responds, standing politely at attention, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.

Darred pulls on his leather apron. He tosses one at Mando. He catches easily and ties it at his waist. Darred opens the gate and Mando steps in. He watches the young man from the corner of his eye. Mando relaxes as one of the cows approaches and nudges him, clearly recognizing him and expecting him to feed her.

“Sorry, I haven’t got anything for you,” he says quietly.

Huh. Interesting.

“So, today, we’re dealing with the males,” Darred says. “The bulls.”

Mando tilts his head questioningly.

“They’re almost sexually mature,” Darred continues. “We need to send them out to be processed before the winter months.”

“…processed?”

Darred lifts a brow.

“Mando, this ain’t a petting zoo,” Darred says. “We raise these animals to eat. The females provide the next generation and milk. Males ain’t good for anything except breeding. All these calves are related, so we can’t take the risk of them mixin’ up their genes.”

“Oh,” he says. “I…I understand. Does that mean…we will be the ones to…uhm…”

Darred nods.

“If you’re not willin’ to slaughter the animal, you have no right to be eatin’ meat,” Darred says. “That’s the price you have to pay.” Then, in a softer tone, “we can swap you over to vegetarian food if you need us to, Mando. We got plenty of vegetarians here. We’ll always respect a person’s choice to choose what they want to eat.”

Mando looks at the cattle. Then he nods.

“I understand,” he says.

Darred nods once at him. He leads the way to the pens. They don’t have time to be dawdling around, regardless. What Mando doesn’t know is that they usually slaughter them once they’ve had time to fatten up on the grass on the way down south. Unfortunately, with the news that the warriors are making their rounds again, they cannot afford to lose any more food, especially not meat. They need to slaughter now and hide it. He wonders if they paid attention to the figures they sent to _Alor_ Pel at the start of the season. They’ll just have to wait and see. Darred opens the gate for him.

“We separate them from the herd once their horns start to break through the skin,” Darred says, gesturing at a young bull scraping its head against a pylon.

“How…” Mando trails off. “How will we…”

“We take ‘em to the processing shed in groups of four,” Darred says. “We feed ‘em a tablet that makes ‘em sleepy. Once they’re asleep, the butcher comes in and nicks them in the throat right here.” He gestures at a spot on his own neck. “Main blood vessel to the brain. It’s a high pressure vessel, so they bleed out in less than ten seconds.”

“Do they feel anything?” Mando asks.

“While asleep, no,” Darred says. “They don’t even twitch. It’s better for them and the herd that way.” Mando still doesn’t look convinced. “Look at him.” Darred tilts his head at one of the bulls. “His horns have emerged. See how sharp they are? He ain’t used to having them. So all it takes is one careless swing of his head and he’ll kill a female or her young. It ain’t pretty to watch a downed cow or calf bleed out, Mando.”

“Oh. I see,” Mando says quietly. “I think I can handle that.”

Darred nods at the young man and hands him a rope. Together, they lead the first four bulls into the pens. Mando watches them for a few moments before taking a deep breath. Darred gives him the tablets. Mando feeds each animal two tablets. It takes a few minutes for the tranquilizer to kick in. Their heads droop toward the ground.

“What now?” Mando asks softly.

“We’ll guide you through the first few,” Darred says. “But we need to get these animals put down and processed as quickly as possible. We’re on a strict timeline right now and we can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“I understand,” Mando says.

The butcher comes over. She’s wearing a long leather apron that falls from her neck to the tops of her waterproof broots. She has several massive knives in the holster at her hip and a plastic screen on her hat.

“Hey, I’m Sikkina. I’m the butcher ‘round these parts,” she says. “Darred says you’re new to this. I’ll walk you through the process before we get started, alright?”

Mando nods as Sikkina’s assistants start bringing in equipment. One sets up a wall of opaque panels between the animal pen and the processing area.

“We want to make sure they can’t see or smell what’s going on back here,” she says. “We want them to go to sleep not knowing what’s going on. Once they’re asleep, we roll them onto the equipment and move them back here. Have you ever butchered an animal before?”

Mando shakes his head.

“Never,” he says. “But I can see this through,” he says, looking down at the snoozing animals. “It’s the least I can do, ma’am.”

They nod in response to his words. Darred finds himself surprised that the city boy is willing to go through with it, especially since he seems to have befriended the cattle. Darred doesn’t question his luck – inexperience or not, Mando’s got a pair of hands, and he can be put to work packing things if he does get too queasy to continue.

“Alright, here we go,” Sikkina says. “Press that button there to turn the hover cart on. Now bring the animal over here and line its head up over the collection trough.” Mando obeys without a word. He looks away as the butcher positions the animal’s head. “Mando, you’ve got to look if you’re going to learn.”

“Sorry,” Mando says.

“Don’t apologize,” she says. “This isn’t for everyone. Are you sure you want to go through with it? I won’t force you if you’re not ready.”

He nods. With a quick flick of her knife, the butcher dispatches the animal. Mando seems to be forcing himself to watch. His hands are wrapped so tightly around the cart that the leather of his gloves creak.

“There you go, done,” she says. “Six seconds, it’s dead, and it doesn’t feel anything.”

He nods again shakily.

“Take the carcass back to the shed,” she says. “My assistants will handle it from there.”

Mando obeys, pushing the hover cart over to the processing shed. From here, Darred can see them preparing the carcasses for the butchering. Normally, they’d let the meat hang for a few days, but they don’t have time. Not this year. Mando comes back.

“Rinse the blood off before you go get the other animals,” the butcher cuts in quickly. “Remember, we don’t want to scare them.”

“Right. Clean off blood.”

He obeys quickly, washing off with the hose in the corner before cleaning the cart. Darred and the butcher are finished moving their animals back before Mando slides the cart back into place. After turning it off, it sinks into the slot on the ground. After the first few, Sikkina has Mando take over her job, and she goes to get started on breaking down the carcasses with her assistants. Mando works in absolute silence.

“You alright?” Darred asks. “You haven’t said anythin’ in a while.”

“I’m trying to make sure I don’t mess anything up,” Mando confesses. “I don’t want them to suffer if I get distracted.”

“That’s fair,” Darred says. “If you’re gonna puke, do it on the ground, alright?”

“Duly noted,” Mando says, a touch of dry sarcasm in his voice.

Darred almost chortles in response. Once the carcasses are hung to await processing, Darred takes Mando to the temporary processing shed, where the butcher and her assistants are hard at work.

“What now?” Mando asks.

“We don’t have another table for you to work at, so you get to watch and learn. Maybe next year I’ll let you take part.”

Mando’s head jerks up. Before he can speak, Darred launches into his lesson.

“We don’t waste anything here,” Darred says, lighting a cigarette. He takes a long drag before exhaling, watching as the hazy blue smoke spirals up into the air. “The skins go straight to the tailor. Throughout the winter, she’ll turn them into the leather we’re wearing right now.”

Mando looks down at the battered apron tied around his waist and nods.

“In the winter, the bloodbirds migrate south. The chickens need a constant source of calcium and iron to stay healthy. So, we dry the blood and bones and grind it into their feed,” Darred continues. “We render the fat for a few things.”

“Like cooking?”

“We actually send most of the fat to the artisans who make our cosmetic products. Mainly soap, balms, and other household goods,” Darred says. “We give it to the chickens as part of their feed as well.”

“Is your family self-reliant?” Mando asks curiously.

They _could_ be self-reliant, but the warriors are making it damn near impossible to have even enough to support themselves through one season.

“No,” Darred says at long last. “Not nearly as much as we’d like. But we’re getting there.”

Maybe it will take them threatening to find another tribe to get them to stop, but Darred hopes it doesn’t come to that. Threatening to withdraw is something they can’t come back from. Mando watches the others work on the carcasses, cutting pieces of meat off bone and sorting them into piles to be wrapped and stored. Darred takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Most of the insides are edible, but we set the offal aside for the farm animals. A well-fed animal is a happy animal. And we can’t afford to have unhappy animals. The stuff we can’t eat – the brain and spinal cord – are given to the wild animals.”

Darred gestures at the big plastic bins.

“When the heads of families come by, we give them their portion of the meat, based on how many members in the family, and what their caloric intake needs are.”

Mando tilts his helmet.

“It’s a lot like how Mandalorians work,” he muses out loud.

“I guess we all have something in common,” Darred says, looking away. Sikkina gives him a quirk of her brow and Darred subtly shakes his head. No one is telling him anything until he’s proven himself trustworthy. Regardless of your opinion of him, Darred wants to get to know him on his own, get a feel for his character. “Any questions?”

“Do they know they’re going to die?” Mando asks.

Darred stops to think, taking another puff of his cigarette. Then he exhales and grinds the glowing end into the top of the fence post. He brushes the embers off and drops the butt into his pouch. What an odd question to ask.

“Every animal here on this farm knows what death is,” Darred says. “We do our best to protect our animals, but we still lose some to coyotes every year. The cattle are not intelligent enough to understand that separation from the herd means slaughter.”

“Do they feel sad?” Mando asks. “When they’re separated?”

“The cows know that bulls get violent during the breeding season. They kill calves if they see ‘em as a hindrance,” Darred says. “So the females will band together to drive off the young males once they’re old enough. If the bulls won’t leave, the females will kill ‘em. So, this separation of bulls from the herd is natural for them.”

Darred reaches for another cigarette but changes his mind. He’s been trying to cut back for weeks. He settles for a stick of gum. He offers one to Mando. The young man takes it and deftly stuffs it under the edge of his helmet.

“Caff breath?” Darred asks.

Mando nods.

“So, my niece says you had a question,” Darred says, reminding Mando who he is to you. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Mando immediately seems to shrink in on himself.

“Does it have anything to do with…?” Darred tilts his head at the _jai’galaar_ on Mando’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Mando says quietly, in a tone so quiet Darred can barely hear him.

“Alright,” Darred says. “Let’s get the milking shed clean and ready for tonight. My assistant’s leaving today, and we’ll need some help getting the cows milked tonight.”

Mando follows at his heels. Once they come into the temporary structure, Darred hands Mando a stiff bristle brush. Darred fills the bucket up with soap and water. He takes his own brush and dips it into the mixture, sloshing it around until it’s frothy with tiny white bubbles. As they work, Darred waits for Mando to speak up.

“I was born into this,” Mando blurts out. “I didn’t want any of it. I had no choice.”

Darred starts scrubbing the long aluminum tables down. The Death Watch he knows discourages building bonds that might interfere with ones’ duties. Pregnancy and recovery take a warrior away from their duties for months, if not years. Death Watch won’t risk having warriors using up precious resources to provide a single infant that won’t be trained for years. Thus, the organization prefers foundlings. Children that can be acquired in large numbers without raising brows.

“Never heard of Death Watch recruits _having_ kids. I thought they only took young children. Ones with pliable minds.” He watches the young man from the corner of his eye. He’s a tall kid but right now, he looks smaller than a pebble. “Ones who are too hungry, too cold, too starved of affection to question their saviors.”

Mando nods slowly. He is working on the other aluminum countertop, swirling the brush in random patterns, clearly not focused on the task at hand. Darred decides to ask the tough question first. Depending on what he’s working with, there may be hope for the kid.

“Which sect?”

Mando’s head shoots up.

“How do you – “

“Mando, we’re here to talk about you,” Darred reminds. “Not me. I might tell ya one day, if you decide to stick around.”

Mando turns his attention back to the brush. This time, he just stares at it, watching as the foamy bubbles drip off the handle and splatter at his feet.

“I was…,” he starts. “I was born into the Literalist sect.”

It feels like a sucker punch to the gut. That…changes everything. He sucks in a big breath of air through his teeth, watching as Mando shrinks in even further on himself. Darred feels bad for making the kid feel like shit, but…this is beyond his paygrade. He doesn’t know if _anyone_ can talk to the kid about what’s going on.

“I take it you know what they’re all about?” Mando asks softly.

“I know enough,” Darred says in a dark tone.

Darred’s thoughts race. Of the five Death Watch sects, the Literalist one is the most dangerous group, with the most radicalized ideas. They are so dangerous that the other four sects actively try to avoid working with them as much as possible. However, when there is a need for covert operations, a need to destabilize political opponents, the Literalist sect is the one the organization turns to.

He knows the politics only because his own _riduur_ had left Death Watch years ago. He had confessed everything he had seen and heard there. Even now, Darred feels himself growing a bit sick to his stomach as he recalls the atrocities his _riduur_ had seen while in their ranks.

All to return to the way of the _Mand’alor_.

“That’s a lot to take in,” Darred says, after a minute or so of silence. “Do you still believe in their teachings?”

He has to tread carefully now. What if _this_ is a ploy to destabilize their community? What if they have been discovered? Darred feels a knot forming in his stomach, one so deep and icy that he cannot help but to give the young man another cautious look.

“I believe in the _Resol’nare_ ,” he says. “Uh, the _Resol’nare…_ do you – ?”

“Yeah,” Darred says. “I know what it is.”

This time, Mando doesn’t question him.

“I believe that the Mandalorian people have the given right to exist as they please. Warriors, tradespeople, pacifists…we are all Mandalorian, united under one oath.”

Darred hums. It could be a convincing act. He’s never heard of this kind of tactic before, to openly renounce Death Watch while wearing the _jai’galaar_ on ones’ shoulder. The last he had heard, it was a capital offense, one punishable by execution, to renounce the organization. But they might be desperate. And who knows what the Literalist sect would do in order to achieve its goals?

“What finally made you leave?” Darred asks quietly.

“There was a family in the compound,” Mando starts. “They were some of the best tradespeople the clan had – they made most of our goods…and sold the rest. Their work funded most of our needs… But then there were rumors…rumors of them showing each other their faces after the age of six. When they were questioned about it, they admitted to it. So, they were brought in front of the clan for a vote.”

Darred isn’t familiar with the notion of a vote. It must have shown on his face.

“A vote is what the more traditionalist clans use to settle serious matters. Things that affect the entire clan,” Mando says. “Things that an _Alor_ cannot be the only person to decide. If someone is found to be stealing from the clan, or if they’ve committed some heinous crime against another person…or if they’ve broken a blood oath.”

Darred can guess what a blood oath is.

“Every adult is brought in and allowed to vote for, vote against, or abstain entirely.” He sighs audibly. “I asked what voting against would mean for them, but I was told to be silent. To stop questioning…that it didn’t matter what happened. That if anyone voted incorrectly, they would be punished as severely as the family.”

“What happened next?” he asks, barely able to force the words out from the sheer horror of what he is hearing. He understands the need to let certain decisions fall to the rest of the Tribe – to keep an _Alor_ from abusing their power over those in their care – but to suggest violence? For not supporting the _Alor’s_ decision? It makes him sick to his stomach to think of the abuses that would have flourished in such a place. Mando shrugs.

“The vote against them was unanimous. They entire family was taken away. The warriors came back an hour later without them. We were ordered to forget they had ever existed.”

“Do you know what happened to them?” Darred asks, his voice softer.

“No,” Mando says, shaking his head. “Questioning the leadership would have led to the same thing happening to my family. I…I hope they were exiled.”

His voice cracks a bit. Darred knows that the measures taken against them were permanent. Darred doesn’t say anything. Mando clearly isn’t ready to accept that reality right now.

“How did you escape?”

“When I was sixteen, I got promoted to lieutenant. I got my first solo mission. I was told I could earn a promotion right afterwards if I did well enough. But then…I befriended the people around me. I saw that there was another way of living…I saw that people could speak without fear of being silenced by the leadership. I saw that people could _be people_ and not pawns in a war they knew nothing about. I wanted to be free.”

“You’re free now,” he says softly.

“I guess,” Mando says. “But my siblings aren’t.”

“Could you have freed them as well?” Darred asks.

“No,” Mando laughs out with a tone of certainty that makes Darred’s stomach clench. “They would have turned me in the instant they suspected my loyalty was wavering. They always told me I was the runt of the litter. I was the soft one, the one who never wanted to spar with others for fear of hurting someone. I was the disappointment of a child that the warrior gene skipped.”

Darred blinks and gives him an incredulous look. Mando, the _runt?_

“My _buire_ were worried I’d never be matched to anyone,” Mando continues in a nonchalant tone. “The leadership finally found a suitable partner for me. I didn’t want him, but they said they weren’t willing to waste any of the warriors capable of bearing children on either of us. We would have been tasked with raising the foundlings without a family.”

Mando trails off, tilting his head at his stare.

“What?” he asks.

“You weren’t even allowed to choose your spouse?” Darred asks.

Mando shakes his head.

“No. I wouldn’t have known I was getting married until we were brought together,” Mando says. “Only the most capable, skilled, and loyal got a choice. Everyone else had to make do with the partner chosen for them. Because _Alor_ never makes mistakes…especially not in matching suitable warriors to one another.”

_Gods_. Darred’s _riduur_ had seen some terrible things while with Death Watch, but this is on its own level of horrifying. He has spent an entire lifetime spent laboring under the pretense of choosing his own path, when it had already been determined by their leaders, from his very birth to his eventual marriage. Maybe even his death, if convenient to the organization. Darred swallows, taking several deep breaths to will the nausea down.

“Family ain’t about being blood related, Mando,” Darred says carefully. “A family is made up of the people you choose to surround yourself with. The people who love and support you no matter what. And you clearly didn’t get that when you needed it most in life.”

Mando shrugs.

“I’ll survive,” he says.

“But survivin’ ain’t the same as livin’,” Darred says quietly.

“I’ll survive,” he repeats.

Darred feels a pang in his chest at the sorrow in the young man’s words, but he does not lower his defenses. He splashes fresh water onto the counter, pondering his next move. Before he can speak, there’s a thud and the door swings open. There, he finds Aguilla, his niece’s thrice-damned loth-cat. The monster pads into the shed, bright blue eyes already seeking mischief. She stops by the bucket. Grinning, she meets his eyes and presses her paw against the rim, preparing to knock it over.

Mando gives her a sharp look.

“You do that, you’re getting a bath,” Mando warns, gesturing in her direction with the brush.

A blob of foam splats to the ground at her feet and her ears go back. To Darred’s immense surprise, she does not respond with her teeth and claws. Instead, she pads to Mando’s side and stands on her back legs, reaching up with both front paws. Mando picks her up and settles her over his shoulder.

“There we go,” Mando says softly to the cat. “No need to cause trouble if you want attention.”

Aguilla mews, licking his neck. Mando laughs a little and pushes her face away with his fingers. Darred can only stare at her. That monster had put a few stitches in him a few years ago. His crime? Stopping to _pet her_ while she was napping out in the sunshine. Now she is as complacent and gentle as a well-fed _seh’lat_.

“…what sorcery did you perform on that cat?” Darred asks in a serious tone.

“Hm?” Mando responds, turning to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Darred laughs, shaking his head. He holds his arm up to show him the silvery scar on his forearm.

“That walking paper shredder did this to me,” he says. “For _petting_ her.”

“Is that true, Aguilla?” Mando asks, almost cooing at her.

Aguilla manages to look offended as she lets out another tiny mewl, clearly denying his accusation. Darred shakes his head as Mando scratches under her chin, her back leg twitching as he finds her itchy spot. She purrs again, rubbing her head against the side of his helmet.

They have always known there was something different about Aguilla. From the instant she appeared during that blizzard, they all knew she was sent to their family for some reason or another. After the past decade, he knows Aguilla is _yours_ , identifying threats before any of them ever even suspected there was a problem. Regardless, Darred cannot trust this Death Watch soldier, no matter what his gut tells him. Darred has seen the damage they can do – the lengths they’ll go to – in order to succeed in their missions. For all he knows, Mando is an excellent actor trying to infiltrate a peaceful community to recruit more soldiers for his side.

No matter what his gut tells him, his mind says otherwise. Darred has a community to protect. For now, he’ll consult with the Elders, to see what they think. The cat gives him a loth-cat smile. Then she pointedly leans into Mando’s helmet and lets out a purr that Darred can hear from the other side of the shed. Once the milking shed and all the empty pails have been cleaned, Mando goes off to cut grass like the previous few days. Darred watches for a few moments as the cows flock after Mando.

He returns to the processing shed, where the butcher and her assistants are cleaning up.

“All good?” he asks.

“Yup,” she responds. “We left it in big cuts. Here’s hoping that everyone gets a piece of what they want come collection time.”

Darred sighs.

“This don’t sit well with me,” he says.

“Mando? Or the warriors?” she asks, drying off her blades.

“The warriors,” Darred says. “But Mando…hell, he’s a walking bucket full of issues. Don’t know how he’s holdin’ together.”

“Anyone with working eyes can see that,” she says. “Let me guess. Independent, Conservative, or Literalist?”

“Literalist,” he says.

She doesn’t even blink.

“A defector. Interesting.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We do,” she says. “If he was trying to infiltrate us, he’d have covered up that _jai’galaar_ and given you forged papers. He’d have done anything to make sure you accepted him, including taking that helmet off. And don’t you tell me that I didn’t just see Aguilla riding on his shoulder.”

“She could be wrong for once.”

Sikkina sighs.

“You know that monster wouldn’t allow anyone with bad intentions near our niece.”

Darred can’t help but to smile.

“Could be a convincin’ actor.”

“Could be,” she shrugs. “But my gut says no.”

Darred sighs, shaking his head. He pulls out another cigarette and lights it. She lifts a brow at him.

“I thought you were trying to quit?”

“I’m under a lotta stress,” Darred says grumpily at her, making her laugh.

“So am I,” she quips back. “What are your plans now?”

“I don’t know,” Darred responds, shaking his head, watching as the assistants place the meat onto racks in the cooling units. They pack dry ice around the meat to ensure it freezes thoroughly and quickly.

“Call _Ba’buir_ ,” Sikkina says. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Alright,” Darred says. “I’ll talk to _Ba’buir_.”

“She’ll know what to do,” Sikkina says. “I’m heading back to the workshop. Need anything?”

Darred shakes his head, pulling out his datapad. Before he can stop her, Sikkina snatches the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He makes a face at her but doesn’t argue. Sikkina will tell on him in a heartbeat, and the last thing he needs is for the good doctor to come harangue him again.

* * *

That night, once you and Mando have had a chance to clean up and eat a snack, you and Mando head to the milking shed. The cows are already lined up at the gate, mooing impatiently as they wait to be milked. Mando helps you move the pails next to the machine. They were sterilized earlier by _Ba’vodu_ Darred’s assistant and sealed, so all you need to do now is fill them. Aguilla comes trotting in.

“Oh, no,” you tell her. “You can’t have milk.”

Aguilla ignores you and goes to sit on one of the crates. You shake your head. Once your pails are lined up next to the milking machine, you turn to Mando.

“Open the gate,” you say. “They’ll file in on their own.”

Mando does as he’s told. The cows know the routine well and line up in the separator. The first two enter the stalls, their babies watching you with suspicious eyes. You guide Mando over and show him the milking machine.

“Takes about two minutes tops to milk a cow,” you say. “The part that takes the longest is washing them clean and checking their teats. If there is bruising, bleeding, or swelling, call me over.”

“Clean them off and make sure they’re healthy,” he says. “I can do that. What about the babies?”

“They fit through the bars,” you say. “They will not go anywhere without their mother, so they’ll stick close by.”

“Okay,” he responds. “They’re cute.”

“Yes, they are,” you agree, looking at the baby chewing on its tail.

When it sees you watching it, it scuttles back to its mother’s side. You give Mando a clean rag and a bucket of diluted disinfectant. The two of you set to work. Occasionally, you stop to watch him, but he seems to be doing well. Occasionally, he calls you over, and you separate the cows in question back into a waiting pen. For the next few hours, the two of you work your way through the herd.

“This one doesn’t have udders,” Mando says in a very confused voice.

“Look at its ass end,” you say.

He gets up.

“Okay, what am I looking for?” he asks.

“See anything you might also have, Mando?” you ask with a wicked grin.

“Those look like - oh. _Oh_. Right,” he says. “Uhm, I guess we aren’t milking you, are we?”

“I mean, you can always try,” you say. “Harold would probably enjoy it, but uh…”

“What do I do with him? Just let him out?”

“Let me check his horns,” you say, getting up. “He might need them filed down. Or he may have something stuck in his hooves.”

Harold’s horns are a bit sharp, so you use your knife to take the sharp edges off, dulling the horns so he will not hurt himself or any of the other animals. Then you crouch next to him, poking his flank. The bull grunts as he lifts each hoof for you in turn. You clear a pebble from his back hoof.

“Why were the other bulls culled?” Mando asks, watching you work. “And why is he still hanging around?”

“Harold is an ideal bull,” you say. “Gentle with the cows, excellent at teaching the calves the rules. He’s also damn good at defending the herd. We keep a few from each season to see if they can be bred the next year. Those have already been separated out.”

Mando seems very confused about something.

“How do you keep him from making babies?”

“The cows come into season once a year,” you say. “We trade bulls between families every year. When that business is finished, he comes back, tame as a kitten, and ready to dote on the calves he thinks he fathered.”

“Oh,” Mando says. “That makes sense.”

“There we go,” you say. “He’s fine. Let him out, please.”

Mando sets him free in the pasture. The next cow comes in and the two of you settle into your rhythm swiftly. Once the cows are milked, you go check on the ones separated out. Some have been nipped a little hard by their calves. You treat their wounds with a bacta spray. One looks like she has an infection, so you tag her hide with a bit of red paint and put her back into the pen. Her baby is older, but since she is infected, she needs to stay put until _Ba’vodu_ Darred comes to check on them in the morning. From there, the two of you start carrying pails into the cooler storage area.

Aguilla sulks in the doorway. You give her a stern look.

“I _told_ you that you were not getting more milk,” you tell her. “I will feed you when we get back home, okay?”

She warbles and turns away from you, her nose in the air. Once the pails are lined up, you check the time.

“We’ll need to let the cream and milk separate overnight,” you say to Mando. “Tomorrow morning, we come back here and start processing it.”

“I understand,” he says.

Reaching up, you grab a ladle and go to one of the pails to sneak a taste. Rich, creamy, and delightfully cold – the perfect way to finish a hard day’s work. You offer the rest to Mando, expecting him to refuse. To your amazement, he _doesn’t_. Right then and there in front of you, he lifts the front edge of his helmet and drinks the rest. You can’t see much of his face around the ladle, but you _do_ see a bit of scruffy facial hair and a scar on his jaw.

Then, as quick as lightning, he lowers the front of his helmet back down, and you grin at him.

“Good?”

“Excellent,” he says shyly. “So. Uh. What do we do with the rest of our evening?”

_Our_ evening. 

You ignore the part of you that wishes his statement referred to something of a more physical nature and consider the never-ending list of chores that await you. He steps a bit closer, now within reach. It takes considerable effort to _not_ touch him. You’ve already done that today and you nearly kissed him. You aren’t sure you have the self-restraint to stop yourself right now.

“I noticed we were running low on firewood,” he says. “Maybe I can go grab some from the shed?”

You do a few quick mental calculations, trying not to think about how nice the ‘we’ in his sentence had sounded. Then thunder rumbles in the distance and the gust of wind brings the smell of rain to you.

“I think a full bin would be enough for us,” you respond, carefully testing that word out.

_Us_. 

He looks delighted.

“A full bin,” he confirms.

“Yes,” you say. Your eyes fall to a tear on his shirt and the words come tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. “I can patch up your shirt, if you’d like?”

“I’d like that,” he says shyly.

A flash of purple lights up the horizon. Then a crackling rumble washes over you.

“We need to get back,” you sigh, looking up at the sky. “It’ll rain soon.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mando says.

* * *

That night, as you lay on your side, you chew on your lower lip. Mando is on his back, arms folded under his head, elbow poking out from under the curtain. Taking a deep breath, you reach out and poke him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

Aguila lets out another snore like a chainsaw. Mando laughs in response.

“Point taken,” he says, turning onto his side.

He sticks his hand back under the curtain and pokes you back, earning a little laugh from you. For a few moments, the two of you play a childish game of ‘poke the other person’ until you grow bored and rest your hand on the flooring, just a few centimeters from his. Shyly, you reach out and grasp his hand. You don’t dare breathe until he squeezes his fingers around yours in response.

“I’m glad I met you,” Mando blurts out.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” you respond.

Silence fills the room, save for Aguilla and the whistling bloodbirds outside. You try to quiet your breathing. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, so loud you’re afraid he’ll hear it and it’ll ruin the moment. Idly, you trace your finger over the side of his thumb, stroking until you can work up the courage to go further.

You never realized just how cold you were until you found the warmth of his hands.

Trailing along the silky skin of his forearm, you follow one of the prominent veins, heat filling you at the corded muscle under your fingertips. You hear him inhale sharply. But he doesn’t stop you as your hand moves further up until you are under the curtain. His other hand wraps around yours and guides your hand up to his cheek, where you can feel soft stubble under your fingers. Mando presses a kiss to the center of your palm.

You try to stifle your moan, but you know he heard it. Mando kisses you again. And again. Working his way to your wrist, each press of his lips against your skin sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You’re already soaked, knees pressed together, panting for more. Closing your eyes, you imagine what he might look like. Mando shifts on the bedding, fingers curling around the edge of the curtain.

“Cover your eyes.”

Before you can obey, you realize just how _silent_ it is, and a little prickle of apprehension rises up along the back of your neck. Then there is a loud thud as Aguilla lands on the floor between your sleeping cushions, hitting the ground hard. You glower at her through the curtain, but when you see how puffed up her fur is, you realize she is pissed. _Shit_.

You jerk your arm away from Mando as she swats at you with her front paw. She misses your skin by a mile, but you certainly don’t miss the gouges she leaves behind in the soft wooden floor. Her warning is clear. Aguilla pads around your curtain and stares down at you. You glare. She lets out a _chrrrr_ that sounds disapproving. Then she settles across your midsection, making you grunt as all fifteen kilos of loth-cat press down on your belly.

“She has impeccable timing,” Mando says, voice a bit rough and strained. “But…I’m…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Neither should I,” you confess.

“…do you think she’d let me kiss you tomorrow?” Mando muses.

A gusty laugh escapes you as you press your knees together.

“Maybe…”

You stare at her as she stares at you, her little pink nose quivering. Even if you kicked her out, she would claw her way through the canvas shell of your home and bite the hell out of both of you. Or if she was feeling particularly vindictive, she would probably race to _Ba’vodu_ Darred’s place and raise hell until _he_ raised the alarm to investigate. Aguilla rests her head on your sternum, staring at you until you start petting her silvery fur. She takes that as an apology of some kind and a contented purr escapes her.

“You need to get some sleep,” you tell him.

“So should you,” he yawns out. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right behind you.”

A smile crosses your face as you hear him shift on the bedding. Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Ever since that first night, he’s fallen asleep faster and faster.

“Asshole,” you whisper to Aguilla.

She responds by pressing her nose to yours.

You know everything will be okay in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando'a Translations**
> 
> Ba’vodu - Aunt/uncle  
> Ba’vodu’ad(e) - niece/nephew  
> Buir - parent  
> Mand’alore - leader of the Mandalorian people  
> Alor - leader of the Tribe/clan  
> Verd(e) - warrior(s)  
> Seh’lat - stolen from Star Trek. A seh’lat is a Vulcan guard animal with a ferocious bite. A Vulcan child will never be late in feeding it twice.


	5. Ignition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Reader x Death Watch Mandalorian (I’m calling him Mar Vizsla)  
>  **Word Count:** ~12k  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings:** Really long chapter, canon typical violence, descriptions of farm/ranch life, the cat is a tremendous asshole, pining, oh god the pining  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Sorry this took so long but hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for it because...there’s a lot to get in here before the main event(s), so to speak. XD

Morning comes far too early, as usual.

Turning onto your side, you pull the thick blanket up to your chin as you peek under the curtain. A smile crosses your face as you see Mando’s foot poking out from under the fabric. Sleep beckons, but the thought of everything that needs to be finished today makes you grimace to yourself. Well, that’s what happens when you fall behind on your work.

When your brothers get here, the morning will be spent deconstructing the yurts to be flown south on one of the old ships. Everything will be set up and waiting for you by the time you get there with the animals. Even though you are the blacksmith, you still have experience with shoeing the animals and herding them, so your hands will be needed there to keep the animals safe. Aguilla kicks you as she turns onto her side, curling her body around your feet. As much as you want to stay there with your foot warmer, you cannot justify being lazy today.

Right now, you need a distraction, regardless of the situation. You do not want to think about Mando and his situation. You don’t want to wander if he will be happy when he moves on. Will he look back on your time spent together fondly? Or will he forget about you? The thought of being nothing more than a fond memory – or Manda forbid, being _forgotten_ – breaks your heart in a way that makes no sense to you.

Sighing in resignation, you crawl out of bed and get ready for the day. The clouds that had rolled in during the night brought a fine mist with them, saturating everything with a damp chill. The grass is clumped and matted on the ground from the wetness. In the kitchen, you start working on breakfast. Eggs, bread, and beans, as per Mando’s request. Hopefully, this time, his hunger will be satiated. By the time Mando is up and running for the bathroom, the rain has gone from a light mist to a moderate drizzle, and your toast is turning golden brown in the pan on the stove.

Aguilla headbutts you in the calf as she walks by. You open the door for her, but as soon as she sees the rain, her ears go back and she grumbles. She refuses to set foot outside. Instead, she chooses to sit by her dish and stare at you, punctuating the quiet of the yurt with her increasingly desperate meows. Mando comes out of the bathroom, his flight suit slightly damp around the neck. Without asking, he gets Aguilla’s kibble and wet food mixed together, ignoring her howls.

“Morning,” he says, as he starts working on the caff. “ _Behot_?”

“Yes, two scoops, I think,” you respond, stifling your yawn.

“It’s going to be that kind of day, huh?” he responds, and you can hear the smile on his face.

The two of you settle into a soft, companionable silence. Morning preparation doesn’t take as long today, since you’ll be feeding Mando leftover beans from yesterday. He takes the now-steaming pot of beans to the table. Quickly, the two of you finish putting the meal together, moving around each other with an ease you had never noticed before. At long last, everything is on the table, and Mando is waiting patiently for you to finish washing your hands.

He only serves himself once you have taken your portion. Once Mando disappears behind the curtain, Aguilla takes the empty seat at the table, her head poking up over the edge. You give her a look as she tries to reach for your toast. She gives you her biggest, saddest blue eyes.

“So, how’d it go yesterday?” you ask, ignoring Aguilla’s pouting.

“Darred listened to what I had to say,” Mando says quietly. “He was surprised, but…he didn’t seem upset.”

“He’s seen a lot out here,” you respond, your voice as soft as his. “Are _you_ okay?”

The spoon clinks against the bottom of his bowl a few times before stopping entirely. He sighs.

“I feel more like a person today,” he says. “Less…less like a monster.”

You can’t help your grimace at his words. Immediately, you move in to assure him otherwise.

“A monster would have done those things – and worse – without hesitation, without remorse. I know you have done things you aren’t proud of. You did everything you could to avoid hurting other people, Mando. I know my opinion isn’t worth much, but…I think you’re very brave.”

Awkward silence fills the living space. You wonder if you’ve overstepped, so you go back to eating. You look at Aguilla, who has moved her front paws onto the edge of the table, resting her chin atop them. Her relaxation sets you at ease. You force yourself to swallow the rest of your meal as the silence grows deafening, leaving your stomach feeling like it is made of lead.

When you are finished with your food, you sit there for a moment, staring down at the half-eaten toast in front of you and fidgeting with your fork. Nothing comes to mind – not an apology, nor an explanation for your overstep. After a few moments, you get up to go get started on the dishes. Taking the apron off the hook, you tie it around your waist and then reach for the brush.

“You’re wrong.”

You nearly leap out of your skin. Jerking around, you look up at Mando, who is surprisingly close. How had he sneaked up on you like that? Or were you truly that distracted by your thoughts of him?

“I’m sorry,” you begin to say.

“You…your opinion…it does matter. To me,” Mando says, cutting you off.

Warmth fills you at his words. Maybe he won’t forget you once he leaves. Maybe he’ll stay a little longer.

“I respect you,” he continues. “A lot.”

You stand there, gazing up at his visor, wondering what to say. What _can_ you say? You aren’t sure how to respond to that. He starts to turn away, but you stop him with one hand at his wrist. He turns back to you and you move in cautiously, wrapping your arms around his middle. Mando’s inhalation stutters. His entire body is tense, like he wants nothing more than to bolt. The next few moments feel like an eternity. Before you can let go, he returns the embrace.

As two powerful arms close around you, everything seems to just disappear, leaving behind only a sense of _right_. His arms tighten around you, hungrily drawing you to him until your bodies are pressed together and your cheek is resting against his chest. As you close your eyes, you can hear the steady _thump-thump_ of his heart, and you can no longer deny what your heart has been screaming at you.

You’ve finally found your _kar’yaim_ – the place your heart calls home – right here in Mando’s arms. No one else in your life has ever inspired feelings like these, a love so powerful it has overridden every bit of common sense and logic that you possess. You should be terrified at how quickly you have managed to fall for Mando. Someone whose face you have never seen. Someone whose name you don’t even know. But you aren’t terrified. All you know is joy, like you’ve found some long-lost piece of yourself that you never knew was missing and _you never want to let it go_. Standing here in his arms feels like stepping into the first sunny day after the winter, a warmth that prickles along your skin and thaws the memories of frost away.

Mando leans his helmet against the top of your head, one hand settling between your shoulders and the other at the small of your back. Part of you wonders how many times he has been hugged like this, but you push it away. No matter what the answer is, it wasn’t enough for this gentle soul. As you curl your fingers into his shirt, you hold him tight, never wanting this embrace to ever end. How could a simple touch have you so dizzy? So imbalanced?

A sudden crash makes you jump. Before you can process it, Mando whirls around, shoving you behind him, his entire body tense and ready for a fight. You peek around him. Aguilla is sitting on the kitchen table, licking her paw clean, and the remains of your toast mysteriously gone. One of the chairs is on its side, clearly having been shoved over by your miscreant of a cat.

Mando sighs as she drops to the floor and trots over. She stands up on her back legs. As Mando scoops her up, she gives you a grin over his shoulder, clearly pleased with herself. You glare at her as Mando rubs between her ears. She rubs her face against Mando’s helmet as she purrs.

 _Traitor_ , you think to yourself.

“I’m going to go get the chickens fed,” he says, and before you can respond, he grabs the organic waste bucket and high-tails it into the drizzle outside.

Space is probably a good idea right now. You go to finish tidying up, trying to still the trembling of your fingers. Occasionally, you peek through the window, watching as Mando deals with the chickens. Aguilla is waiting by the gate while the alpha chicken follows him around the enclosure. When he turns to leave, the bird runs up to him, carrying an egg in her mouth. Mando crouches to take the egg from her and scratches lightly behind her feathery crest.

 _Traitors_ , _all of them_ , you think in amusement.

The chickens, Aguilla, yourself. Everyone seems enamored with him. You shake your head as he lets himself out of the pen. Aguilla trots at his heels as he comes back and deposits the eggs on the counter. You count them as you lay them into the cushioned box for transportation.

“Twenty-three,” you say, checking the previous numbers. “The numbers are going down.”

“Is that bad?” Mando asks.

“No, at this time of year, we are right on track,” you say. “Throughout the fall, production drops until they lay about a tenth of what they normally do. In a month, we’ll be lucky to get three or four each day.”

“But breakfast,” Mando says, and he cuts himself off sharply. There’s a beat of awkwardness before you start laughing.

“Unwashed eggs last three weeks on the counter, maybe four,” you say, patting the bin next to the sink. “Once I start packing, I’ll store them in ice, so they’ll last three times as long.”

“Confession,” Mando says. “Up until last year, I had never eaten eggs that weren’t dehydrated, powdered, and rehydrated at some point. I’d recommend you avoid them, if you can.”

You grimace in sympathy.

“I have no plans of ruining perfectly good eggs like that,” you quip at him.

“Will I be cutting grass today?” he asks, looking out through the window.

“No,” you say. “I’ll need your hands elsewhere.”

His head shoots up and you give him a curious frown. He quickly looks away.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, you know where his mind went. Straight into the manure pits. To keep yourself from thinking of _where_ you could keep his hands busy, you go through your mental list. The priority is his harness. As much as you want to keep him here – _forever_ , your traitorous mind whispers – you made an agreement that he would work for seven days.

“I need to take your measurements,” you say. His helmet tilts slightly, and you follow up with, “for your chest plate?”

“Oh, right,” he says, in an oddly quiet tone.

You swallow around the knot that has inexplicably appeared in your throat. There is no way he has actually forgotten about his agreement, is there? You squash down the irrational hope that maybe, just _maybe_ he will want to stay here with you.

“Yeah,” you follow up to break the awkward silence. Then you smile at him. “Come with me, please. The light in the workspace is much brighter.”

He obeys, planting himself in the middle of the only clear space. In silence, you start taking his measurements, occasionally stopping to jot something down. His flak vest is what takes the majority of the thrust generated by his jetpack. It spreads it along his entire torso rather than under his arms or across his shoulders.

However, the rigid chest and back plates are needed to keep the jetpack aligned with his center of mass. Without them aligned properly, he would start wobbling during flight and it would probably cause him to crash. And with cheap droid-made shit? Even a five meter fall could be lethal.

Fortunately, the back plate is intact and works as intended. With some reinforcements to the back and a strong harness, it will be like nothing ever happened to his chest plate.

“So, question,” he says. “If I’m not cutting grass…what’s the plan?”

“Well, we need to deal with the dairy. Butter is easy enough to make. I’ll walk you through the first batch and you can deal with it while I get the cheese started,” you say, going through your list one more time. “While the curds are draining, I’ll come back here and start working on your harness.”

His helmet tilts.

“Do you make them often?” he asks in a joking tone.

Even if you are still training to become a proper armorer, you still work with plenty of weapons. You shrug.

“I help my Aunt Jala with the leatherworking,” you say, drawing your vest back to show him your torso holsters. “Everyone is armed here, especially this time of year.”

His helmet tilts again and you start listing the various predators.

“There are a few predators around here big enough to attack and kill a person. We have coyotes, wolf-bears, scarlet eagles, and spiders,” you say, counting off on your fingers. “Not to mention bandits and other unsavory characters.”

“…I’m sorry, did you say _spiders_?”

You swear his voice cracks at the end of his question, and you smile at him.

“They’re about the size of your helmet, I think,” you say. “But they hunt in packs of a dozen or so.” He stays quiet, so you continue, hoping to assuage his fears. “It’s okay though, they’re easy to spot from a distance. They’re bright purple.”

“I think I would like to avoid them,” he says at long last, and you laugh a little.

“They live in the mountainous areas,” you say. “But if it’s a difficult winter, they will come out in the snow to hunt.”

Again, another reference to a season he is not going to be around to see with you. Pocketing the notes, you lead the way back into the living space.

“Normally we would walk, but I don’t feel like getting wet,” you say as you put on a waterproof coat and boots. “We’ll take the cart.”

Before Mando can shut the door, Aguilla hops in, and climbs into his lap. You glare at her.

“You set one toe out of line,” you warn her.

She ignores you as she cuddles up to Mando. He closes the door. Shaking your head, you turn the cart on and begin the short drive to the dairy shed. The small building is located just behind _Ba’vodu_ Darred’s house and near to the cattle. You swing by the holding pens, where you can see some of the cows loitering by the gate. They’re clearly ready to rejoin the herd, but their babies are a bit too small for that.

Shifting into low power, you come to a smooth halt in front of the dairy shed. Opening the door, you turn on the lights and survey what has been left here. The room is nice and chilly, as intended, and the full pails are lined up against the wall. Good, everything is ready for the two of you to work.

“Alright, let me get you started on the butter,” you say, opening one of the crates and pulling out the equipment. “It’s very easy once you know what you’re looking for.”

Everything here has already been cleaned once, but you spray the surfaces down with a diluted disinfectant. As it dries, you open one of the pails and show him the thick layer of fatty cream floating on top of the milk.

“This is what you’re after,” you tell him. “The electric churn can hold eight liters of this at a time, so you’ll have to make multiple batches.” You go through it slowly, ensuing he’s watching you work. You scoop cream into a clean pail and carry it to the electric churn. Then you pour it in until it hits the max fill line. After covering the pail, you turn the machine on. Little droplets of cream splash up against the clear dome.

“While the first batch is coming together, I typically cut wax paper to wrap it in,” you say, showing him the rough template. “Each bar is enough for one family to cook and eat for the week.”

“Do the cows stop producing milk in the winter?” he asks curiously.

“After today, we won’t milk the cows again until all the calves hit one hundred kilos. That’ll be around two or three months from now, right as true winter is beginning,” you say, thinking for a few moments. “Once they’re sheltered for the winter, the cow’s supply drops to about half of what it is now. Calves will typically be transitioning to hay and fodder, so we can resume taking whatever they don’t need.”

He nods. You peek into the churn as the sound goes from a steady _whirr_ to a choppy splashing noise.

“There we are,” you say, showing him the little clumps of butter floating in the liquid. You turn the machine off and slide another pail under the drainage tube. “We drain that off. It’s called buttermilk and we can store that for later consumption.”

Then you go back to the churn and start adding ice-cold water from the storage tank.

“Wash it twice. This liquid can be dumped outside,” you say. “Got it so far?”

Mando nods. Once the butter has been washed twice, things start to go by much faster. Mando asks plenty of questions, which makes you feel much better. If he asks questions, it means he is listening, and if he is listening, he can’t fuck it up too badly. Once the first batch is finished, you turn to him.

“Any questions?” you ask.

He shakes his head. You grab the manual and put it down on the counter.

“This has all the ratios you will need for salting and packaging,” you say, “Look at that if you need the exact amounts. Now, cheese. I like cheese. This milk will make plenty of cheese for us to eat on the way south.” You ignore the pang in your chest at the word _us_. “This batch will all be turned into soft cheese. Some will be eaten fresh while the rest will be packed in brine.”

He nods. That explanation would take a lot of time, and you don’t trust him to make cheese on his own yet, so you go through the first steps quickly. Some of it is set aside for fresh cheese, which will take less time to make. The rest of it will take longer to acidify, culture, and press. Mando helps you get the heating coils on the counter and you fill the pots with milk. When it hits the right temperature, you mix in a bit of culture into the milk and set the lid on.

“I think one batch of soft cheese will be enough,” you say, looking at the four massive pots on the other side of the shed. “Make sure it stays at thirty-two degrees, but don’t change anything.”

Mando nods and looks back at the pails.

“Think you can do the butter by yourself?” you ask, lifting a brow at him.

“Definitely,” he says confidently, and you nod at him.

“If something happens, go to my uncle’s place and tell him to call me,” you say. Then you look at the snoring cat snoozing in the empty box in the corner. “Or wake that useless lump up and have her come get me.”

“I can handle it,” he says.

You head out.

 _Please gods_ , you pray as you get into the cart. _Please don’t let him fuck this up_.

* * *

Mar reads the instructions three times before moving on. He does not want to mess anything up. When his first batch is finished, he puts it through two washes, watching carefully to ensure nothing goes wrong. Mar isn’t sure if he could fix anything if it went wrong. After measuring the batch, he adds the precise amount of salt as instructed, and puts the globs of yellow butter through the electric churn again, setting it to knead. Soon, Mar finds his rhythm and starts dividing up bricks of butter.

He has to admit that never, not once in his life, did he ever imagine that he would end up on a farm on some unknown planet in an obscure corner of the galaxy. He has always liked working with his hands. Building and creating things always felt so much better than the alternative. Destruction of what others created always made him feel so bad about himself. He never understood how his Death Watch peers could tolerate it for so long. Here, with the blacksmith? He feels like he finally has a purpose in life, a place where he can use his hands to _create_ and not destroy.

He is genuinely sad that it will be coming to an end soon, but he cheers himself up. If he works hard enough, there is a chance that one of your family members will take notice and allow him to continue working. No matter how taxing the work is, he still feels a sense of accomplishment at physically contributing, a sense of pride at _seeing_ something good come from his hands for once.

Mar scoops butter into the molds and presses them. Then he turns them out onto wax paper and wraps it neatly before securing the flap with a sticker. It takes nearly four hours, but he finally finds himself at the end of it, a pile of butter covering the table in front of him. He nods in satisfaction and starts loading them into the icebox.

Then he checks the manual. The buttermilk needs to be bottled to be divided up between families. He frowns to himself as he skims over the neat notes in the back of the notebook. Each household receives a set amount of dairy based on the number of people in the household and what season it is. He tilts his helmet. Before he can think about the familiar numbers too much, the door opens.

Mar turns, expecting to see you. Instead, your Aunt Sikkina steps in, and gives him a small smile that does not quite reach her eyes. He feels himself go on guard immediately. Aguilla trots over to butt her head against her knee. Then she retreats before Sikkina can reach down to pet her.

Safe…ish?

“Good afternoon,” Mar says politely.

“Afternoon, Mando,” she drawls out, hanging her coat on the hook by the door.

Like you, she wears shoulder holsters. However, hers are on full display. His eyes flick down briefly, and he notes that she also has a hip holster. This one seems to hold knives, however. She turns toward him.

“I volunteered to check on you,” she says. “Let me see what you’ve done with the butter first.”

He backs out of her way to let her get to the icebox. She checks the bricks of butter and nods at him.

“Good work, Mando,” she says, and a tendril of pride fills him. “Were you going to work on the cheese, or…?” She trails off, giving him an expectant look.

“Blacksmith said she would come back to deal with it,” he says. “I don’t think she trusted me with the cheese.” At the smile that curls across Sikkina’s face, he continues, “I wouldn’t trust myself with cheese, either.”

“Your instincts are correct,” she says, pulling the lid off the pot. She stirs a tiny bit, humming as she examines your work. “Perfectly acidic. Looks good to me.” She starts taking down equipment. “Join me,” she says. “You’ve got some learning to do.”

Mar blinks at the joke and comes forward a step. Then another, until they’re within touching distance. He doesn’t like being too close to other people. It is too risky for his tastes. Sikkina lifts a brow.

“Come on, Mando, I don’t bite,” she says dryly. Her eyes flick over his armor. “Especially not if you’re covered in that cheap shit.”

He grits his jaw at the insult, wondering what the obsession with his armor is. You? He understands. A _butcher_? Makes no sense to him. Sikkina smirks as she turns back to the pots. “Rennet curdles the proteins. Once I add it, it sits for about an hour and then we cut the curds.”

Mando listens and nods in the right places, occasionally daring to ask a question. As she talks, he gets a better read on her. Sikkina does not see him as a threat. Part of his pride is wounded at the implication. The other part of him is glad that she will not be uncomfortable because of him. He doesn’t have long to contemplate.

Once the curds have set, everything starts moving faster. Sikkina shows him how to cut the curds and lets him borrow a knife. Then she raises the temperature, and they start stirring the curds. At the end of the hour, when sweat is starting to drip down his face, she determines they’re done for now.

Sikkina has him scoop everything into the lined molds. Aguilla comes over to lap up some of the liquid dripping off the table. He ignores her and they get started on the next round of pots. He does precisely what Sikkina tells him to do, hoping to not draw her ire. If he’s going to hope for more work – and the chance to see you again – he cannot afford to upset anyone. Lunch time comes and goes. By the time he has a moment to look outside, he realizes that the clouds are gone, and the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon.

“So, Mando,” Sikkina says. “What’s your name?”

Physically, he freezes. Mentally, his thoughts go straight into hyperdrive. She looks up at him, a smirk on her face, as she packs slabs of pressed cheese into the initial brining solution.

“I’d prefer to go by Mando, please,” he says politely, and she snorts.

“Mando it is,” she says, and he can’t help but to feel like she is making fun of him. “What’s a Death Watch sympathizer doing all the way out here? Looking for a government to destabilize or something?”

Fury fills him as he clenches his jaw.

“I defected,” he says crisply.

“Uh-huh,” she says disbelievingly.

“Ma’am – “ he begins.

“Don’t ever call me _ma’am_ ,” she returns venomously. “What are your intentions toward my niece?”

Mando blinks at her.

“…what?” he repeats dumbly.

“What are your intentions?” she repeats in a dangerously low voice, advancing on him.

Mar doesn’t realize he is backing away until he hits the table. She draws a blade from the holster at her hip. He recognizes the blade as one she had used while butchering the cattle. He holds his hands up. The only thing keeping him from retaliating is the fact that he knows it would upset you. He ignores the part of his mind that screams at him to disarm her.

“I have no ill intentions,” he says. “I am not here to cause trouble. I defected. I needed work. That is it.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Sikkina asks, the tip of her blade coming to rest lightly on his flak vest.

Based on where she has the blade positioned, she intends to hit one of his hepatic blood vessels and let him bleed out slowly. Mar grits his teeth.

“I have no reason to lie to you,” he says in his calmest voice. “I only want to work – “

“ _Sikkina_ ,” comes a growl from the doorway.

Mar feels relief flood him when he sees Darred standing there. He looks furious.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asks sharply.

“I was just getting to know our friend,” Sikkina says casually as she holsters her blade and backs up a step. “Nothing to worry about, Darred.”

Darred puffs up in annoyance and gestures at the table, where big bowls of unprocessed curds cover the surface.

“While there’s food that needs to be processed?” he demands of her. “One nicked artery and all our work this week’ll be _gone_.”

Sikkina grumbles something as she turns back to the table. Darred sighs and washes his hands in the corner. He stands between the two of them and starts packing the cheese away roughly. Mar turns to his own pile of cheese and continues working. The dairy shed falls into a tense silence. With a third pair of hands, they finish packing the cheese into the containers within the hour.

Darred remains with them as they clean up the equipment and pack it all away into the big crates. Then they step outside, where he has a big breath of fresh air. Sikkina walks past him, roughly shoving him with her shoulder, and Mar snaps, flinging the first insult he can think of at her.

“Watch yourself, _copikla_ ,” he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her head snaps up and she turns to face him.

“The _fuck_ did you say to me?” she asks in a chilling voice.

Mar grins to himself. He is so amused by her reaction that he doesn’t really stop to consider why she would be insulted by his jab at her. Sikkina reaches for her knives. This time, she pulls out a blade that is shorter and broader. He reaches into his belt and pulls out his own vibroblade. He does not activate it, making it clear that he is here to scrap and not draw blood. She bares her teeth at him. Mar matches each step as they start to circle each other. Sikkina makes the first move, darting forward, her blade glinting as she slashes.

Mar dodges her. Sikkina is fast – _really_ fast – but with that single lunge, he knows what he needs to know about her fighting style. As she swings again, Mar feints left and punches with his free hand. Sikkina evades his blow and thrusts her blade up toward his helmet, forcing him back a step. Mar deflects her next stab. He punches again. This time, he hits her in the side, making her grunt in pain.

She dodges his next one, much to his disappointment, and they begin to circle each other once more. Mar can see that she has had some training. Around these parts, it would be enough to deal with any common bandits. Part of him wants to keep scrapping with her. The other part of him knows he shouldn’t encourage it. Before he can decide what to do, however, he hears the sound of a cart approaching.

“What the hell are you two doing?” your voice demands.

In that moment of distraction, Sikkina lunges, and punches him. He wheezes as tears spring to his eyes. He staggers back a few steps. She does not follow. Instead, she sheathes her knife and grins at him.

“Just getting to know Mando,” Sikkina says with a shrug.

“With _knives_?” you repeat, giving her a glower.

“Talking is boring. Fighting is fun,” Sikkina shrugs, waving your comment away. “Right, I forgot. Grandma is having some of us over for dinner tonight. She wanted to invite Mando.”

You look at him. He manages to stand up.

“Food sounds good,” he says around the dull aching of his ribs. “I’d be honored.”

 _Shit_ , he thinks to himself. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in raw power. He supposes it’s due to working with cattle all day.

“You keep picking fights and you’ll be eating _bread_ for the rest of your stay here,” you warn.

He wants to deny it, but he gets the feeling that you aren’t joking. He grumbles to himself as he puts his blade away. Sikkina smirks at him.

“I’ll kick your ass next time, Mando,” she says.

Sikkina goes to get into her cart. With a wave of her hand, she takes off. Darred walks back to his house, shaking his head. You look at him. For some reason, you look upset. More upset than he estimated you would be. Before he can ask if you are okay, you speak up.

“Where’s Aguilla?” you ask tersely.

“…she’s not with you?” he asks.

There’s a crash from the shed. The two of you exchange a look before sprinting for the shed. Mar comes up behind you and sighs. Aguilla has knocked the last pail of buttermilk over. Her entire back end is hanging out of the container. As you step inside, she works her way in, situating herself inside it.

You go and tip the pail upright. Aguilla lets out a soggy _mroawr_ as both she and the liquid slosh around. Mar peers into the cat’s dairy prison. She looks quiet pleased with herself, and as he watches, she ducks her head down to lap up some of the buttermilk.

“Aguilla, why are you like this?” you sigh down at her.

She lets out a rude belch before dipping her head down to drink more buttermilk.

“What do we do with her?” Mar asks.

“Bath,” you say flatly.

Aguilla’s ears go flat and she hisses in response. She scrambles out of the pail and tries to make a break for it, but Mar slams the door shut, stopping her in her tracks. She growls at him and bares her teeth as he picks up the burlap sack.

“You will do as you are told, or you will be sleeping outside,” you say flatly.

She growls again.

“ _Try me_ ,” you hiss at her.

For a long moment, Mar wonders if Aguilla will dare to press her luck.

However, Aguilla decides it’s in her best interest to comply and her ears flatten against her skull. She lowers herself onto the ground. Mando holds the bag open and she climbs in without complaint. She lets out a final defiant warble as he scoops her up.

“I need to go grab some things for dinner tonight,” you sigh. “Can you handle giving Aguilla a bath?”

Mando glances down at the burlap sack, where Aguilla is sulking.

“Yes, I can handle her,” Mando says. Then he tilts his helmet down and glares at her, hoping she can feel his glare, “and if she gives me trouble…I won’t be rubbing her belly tonight.”

Aguilla lets out a grumble. From there, you drop the two of them off at the house, and head on. Mar carries Aguilla straight into the bathroom, shutting the door with his foot. After that, he takes his helmet off and glowers down at her.

“If I let you go now, are you going to cause trouble?”

The grumpy meow answers his question. Mar places her onto the rug, sighing at the cat’s behavior. Then he sheds his gloves and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. He turns on the water heater and rummages for the pet shampoo under the counter. Once he has everything he needs, he puts Aguilla into the shower, burlap sack and all. Then, and only then, does he release her. She starts letting out wails of despair as he rinses the buttermilk out of her fur. When her fur is fully saturated and mostly clean, he turns the water off and reaches for the shampoo.

“Quit complaining,” he scolds. “You ruined an entire pail of buttermilk. You know, I would have slipped you some if you had _asked_.”

She howls again as he spreads the shampoo in her soft fur. Then he lathers it up, using a moderate amount of pressure.

“Lift up your paws, gremlin,” he says.

Aguilla obeys, daintily placing her paw into his hand. He uses the soft brush to clean out from between her toes and around the pads, making sure there is nothing trapped there to cause her pain. She purrs, clearly enjoying the attention. However, as soon as she sees him watching her, she lets out a wail, as if she had forgotten that she was supposed to be complaining.

“Oh, you poor, suffering, abused cat,” he tells her. “Being forced to take a _bath_.”

She warbles in agreement, lifting her back paws when prompted. Mar does a second wash with shampoo just to be sure that she is clean. Then he wraps her in a towel and starts drying her off, listening to her complain about the indignity she had just suffered at his hands. Checking in the box, he sees other supplies, including a toothbrush.

“Alright, open your maw,” he tells her.

Aguilla whines.

“Listen, you can let me do it, or let your _Bu_ do it later,” Mar says patiently. “You’re going to be unhappy either way. At least if you get it done now, you won’t have to worry about it for a while.”

She sits still as he brushes her teeth. Then he brushes her fur out and sighs. He reaches for the doorknob, but Aguilla jumps up, barring him from opening it. She meows and pointedly looks up at his helmet. He doesn’t think twice. Mar puts it on and they come out. You are in the kitchen, humming.

“How’d she do?” you ask.

“Shrieked like I was skinning her alive the whole time, but she didn’t put up a fight,” Mar responds. “I got her teeth brushed and her claws trimmed. I think I made it up by brushing her, though.”

You snort.

“Sounds about right,” you say, wiping your hands on a cloth. “Want me to put your bed near the heater, Aguilla?”

Aguilla takes off in a flash and plops herself down next to the heater. You go tend to the little beast, placing her bed in the warmest spot. She curls up as you tuck a blanket around her. You look up at him with a smile.

“Well, that’s everything we need for dinner tonight,” you say. “Grandma has a spot set up for you to eat and all that. Ready to go?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says with a nod.

He can handle dinner with your family. It will be no different than eating with other _aruetiise_.

* * *

Grandma’s place turns out to be a ring of yurts, with the grassy spot between them cleared out. A bonfire burns brightly in the center of the clearing, with a circle of mismatched tables surrounding it. As they pull into a clear spot in the grass, a horde of children and various animals go stampeding by, and Mar starts getting that queasy feeling in his stomach. He plants himself behind you, figuring you will warn him if he is about to do something out of line for your people.

The first few minutes of the gathering are a bit of a blur as he is introduced to your family. He feels himself shrink back with each new aunt, uncle, cousin, niece, and nephew he is introduced to. Mar is shocked at how large – and diverse – your family is.

They are mainly human, but he can see Zabrak, Togruta, Twi’lek, and several others mingling in the crowds. What he thought was the single group of children turns out to be one of three or four, each with its own distinct age group. Mar makes sure to stay out of the way for a few moments before daring to speak up.

“Hello,” he says to the first friendly-looking face. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

To his credit, the young man doesn’t even blink as he hands a basket of potatoes over.

“We can always use hands in the kitchen,” he says. “Come on, Grandma won’t be happy if we keep her waiting for too long.”

Mar nods and follows him into one of the yurts. It looks like yours, except everything has been moved to the perimeter. He has only a few moments to survey his surroundings when everything goes quiet, and he finds himself under intense scrutiny.

“Ah, you must be our guest,” a voice says. “Come here, dear. And bring those potatoes with you.”

Mar obeys as the makeshift kitchen erupts into chatters. By the time he sits down on the stool next to the family matriarch, he knows all about Maisie, Eryn, and the pregnancy that’s supposed to be a secret but actually isn’t because everyone can see she’s trying to smuggle a melon under her baggy shirts. One hand offers a vegetable peeler. Before he can thank them, they disappear into the swell of the crowd, and he hears them starting to take bets on when Maisie and Eryn will announce their nuptials and whether their parents will finally make them marry.

“Gossips, all of them,” your Grandmother says, harrumphing a little. She spreads a waterproof cloth over her lap and begins working on the potatoes. Mar mirrors her actions, peeling skins with quick, neat flicks of the device.

“You’re used to peeling vegetables,” she remarks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately. “They were part of my duties.”

“Darred told me most of what you told him,” she says, her hands never faltering. “What brings you to our little village?”

“Trying to get as far away from everything as possible,” he responds.

“We are out in the middle of nowhere,” she quips. “Do you plan to get rid of that _jai’galaar_?”

Part of him wonders how she knows what the cursed symbol on his shoulder is called. At this point, he knows better to ask. She is probably a _jetii_ or something.

“Yes,” Mar responds. “I want this thing gone.”

She hums. As he reaches for the next potato, he feels something bump into his thigh. Something jumps up into the seat behind him. Mar is used to Aguilla’s antics by now, so when a fuzzy head pokes its way through the space between his arm and torso, he only pats the cat on the head and goes back to work.

“How long have you been on your own?”

“A few years,” Mar says. “Three, I think. I haven’t been keeping track…”

“You must have met a lot of people on your travels,” she remarks. “Tell me about them.”

He falters for a moment.

“What would you like to know?”

Grandma smiles at him.

“Someone important,” she says. “You can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep, I think.”

Ah, he thinks to himself. So, he decides to go with his favorite people – the ones who were kind to him, even if they knew what the symbol on his shoulder meant. He thinks carefully and selects his first ever source of kindness. The first person who had helped lift him _up_ rather than put him _down_.

“A few years ago, I was on Levisia,” Mar says. “I was down to my last ration. I was looking for physical labor, but I couldn’t find anything that didn’t require a reference. I was about to leave town when this tiny old woman just appeared out of nowhere.”

He takes her silence as a prompt to continue. He smiles fondly to himself as he remembers the faded, tattered green shawl and her grey dress. The soft shuffling sound of her slippers on the pavers.

“She asked me if I was any good with a shovel,” he says. “I thought to myself, you can’t really screw up using a shovel, now can you? And I said yes, and she said she needed some work done in her garden.”

Grandma nods, still peeling slowly, a small smile on her lips.

“She gave me the address and when I showed up, she handed me a shovel and told me to get digging,” Mar says. “She wanted a new sprinkler system laid down and needed someone to dig the trenches for her. Turns out her house was situated on rocky clay and she couldn’t find anyone willing to do it.”

“Sounds like honest work,” Grandma says.

Mar shrugs.

“It was that or steal, and…I wasn’t going to go back to theft,” Mar says quietly. “Anyway, she asked me what I wanted in payment, and so I asked for food and a place to set up my tent. She was kind of surprised that’s all I asked for, but…I didn’t think I was in any position to ask for more.”

He places the potato into the bucket of water and grabs another. The loth cat crawls up his back and spreads itself over his shoulder, its quiet purrs nearly deafening as it watches his every move.

“It took three _weeks_ to dig up those trenches,” Mar says, making a face. “She didn’t tell me she was situated on a large plot. But…I did what she told me to do. Ran errands for her while she washed my clothes. After about a month, she invited me inside for tea and cookies. She made the best raspberry cookies…ate fourteen of them in one sitting…”

He trails off, then shakes his head a bit, embarrassment filling him.

“Anyway, she sat me down with a cup of tea, and gave me a straw,” Mar says, a fond smile on his face. He still has the metal straw she had given him. “For a long time, she didn’t say anything. When she did, she asked me similar questions. Where I was from, what I was doing, all that.”

Mar cuts the black and grey spot out of the potato before placing it into the bucket. He picks up a big one next, a firm gold one as big as his fist. He remembers feeling awkward in the spindly wooden chair, with a delicate china cup in his hands. He felt like he would break the chair or the cup if he sneezed too hard.

“What did she tell you?” Grandma asks.

“She asked if I had ever learned to say no,” Mar says with a shrug. “It took me another week of blindly following her orders before I finally understood what she meant. I didn’t tell her _no_ , exactly, but I did ask to swap some things around to make it easier on myself.”

She hums. Mar smiles to himself, thinking about that fragile old woman and her entourage of small animals. That was the first time he had learned he could say no to someone. That he wasn’t obligated to blindly follow orders from someone in a position of power over him. The first time he told someone their request was absurd, it was like a switch had been flipped in his mind.

“I never blindly followed an order again,” he continues. “I always think about her. She was one of the first people to see me as a person and not just some faceless killer.”

“It’s hard to break to break through a lifetime of being denied autonomy,” Grandma says calmly, moving on to the next potato.

Mar nods. Even now, he sometimes finds himself just wanting to follow orders and do what he is told. Not think. Let someone else do it for him. But he always stops himself and forces himself to make that decision for himself. After years spent as nothing more than a mindless, voiceless drone, he has tasted freedom, and he is not willing to give it up for any reason. Grandma gestures for him to continue.

“Then I ended up on Somara,” Mar says. “I found a monastery looking for menial labor, and so I stuck around. They didn’t pay me much, but they gave me food and someplace safe to sleep. So I stuck around, chopping firewood, cleaning, and repairing their roof. It was such a quiet, peaceful place.”

The tabby loth cat presses its head forcefully against his cheek plate, nearly dislodging his helmet as it nuzzles him. Mar pulls it back down before anyone could see anything they didn’t need to see.

“I got really sick a few days later,” Mar says quietly. “ _Really_ sick. I passed out at some point. I woke up in the infirmary, thinking I was going to get the boot.” He laughs a little at the memory of the small, reptilian monk standing at the foot of the bed, a thunderous look on his face. “I thought he was going to shoot me on the spot.”

“What happened?”

“He gave me a tongue-lashing, of course,” Mar says. “But not because I broke their window, nor because I knocked over some shelves on the way down. They got mad at me because I didn’t tell them I needed medical treatment. When I told him that I was going to walk into town, he got so angry he had to go do his meditations.”

Grandma smiles down at her potato, rocking back and forth in her chair. Mar notes that they’re almost done with the potatoes at this point. Just a few more. Happiness fills him. Yet another task that he has excelled at.

“I didn’t think I had any right to ask for help,” Mar continues. “Nor did I think I would get it. They were kind to me. Far kinder than I felt I was worthy of. I stayed on Somara for nearly a year. I’d go visit every now and again. Take some hares, or birds, or whatever I could hunt back to them. Just as a thank you for seeing value in me as a person, and not just how much work I can do.”

“Did you consider staying with them permanently?”

“Yes,” Mar says with a nod. “But when I asked about it, Brother Tayli laughed at me. Said I wasn’t cut out to a life of meditations and solitude. He said that I needed time on my own before I could make a decision like that. He wanted me to see the galaxy. Meet other people. Learn more about myself. He said that I was welcomed to return…eventually, he said that the priesthood was not where my path was going to take me.”

“Where do you think your path leads?”

Mar falls silent as your smiling face immediately comes to mind. After he stammers for a few moments, Grandma gives him a small smile.

“You don’t have to answer that,” she says. “Where did you go next?”

“Tattooine. I got a contract at the bounty hunter’s guild there. They had someone particularly stubborn they needed help finding,” he says. “He was out in the desert. It was hotter than anything you can imagine, but it was nice. Open skies, the sound of the wind, and not a soul in sight. About three days in, I found an injured _massiff_. It had been injured…even though I was running low on supplies, I gave it half of what I had. And that was enough to get it back on its feet.”

“That was a generous thing to do.”

Mar shrugs at her words.

“I felt like we were both in similar situations,” Mar responds. “Tired, hungry, thirsty. Looking for home. The _massiff_ led me back to its people. I almost got shot, but when it jumped in front of me, they lowered their weapons. My Tusken is not very good, but I got the basics across to them. And so they let me stay for a few days before they told me which way to go to get back to town.” That had been _such_ a long walk. He had found sand in his boots for _weeks_. “They said to be as kind to myself as I was to the _massiff_ ,” Mar says quietly. “Took me months to understand what it meant, but…here we are now. I think I’m a better person for it.”

Grandma smiles.

“What happened to the bounty?”

“Not sure,” Mar says with a shrug. “His trail ended near a sarlacc pit. Given just how much he owed the Hutts, jumping into the sarlacc pit might have been the most merciful option for him.”

She remains quiet as he reaches for the last potato.

“And what lesson will you take from here when you do leave, Mando?” she asks.

Mar blinks. His heart falls as he remembers that he only has a few more precious hours with you. That in less than fifty hours, his deal with you will be complete, and he will need to go. His heart wrenches at the thought of you forgetting him, of you moving on and finding a nice farmer to raise a family with. Mar pushes the bittersweet thoughts away and swallows.

“If I had more time,” he starts. Then he falls silent, trying to come up with the words. Grandma smiles and pats his hand.

“It’s quite alright, dear,” she says. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. I think I know what I need to know.”

Even though he does not understand, Mar nods. He places the last potato into the bucket and wipes his gloves clean.

“Evie,” Grandma says. “You and Ral come take care of these potatoes.”

“Yes, _Baba_ ,” twin voices chime in. A pair of blond individuals comes to whisk the potatoes away before he can offer to help. Mar finally plops the cat into his lap and rubs under its chin, feeling as all four legs go weak. The cat collapses into his lap, rolling belly-up. Mar obliges the cat, the sadness dissipating rapidly as he distracts himself with tummy rubs.

Grandma looks at the cat sprawled across his legs and smiles.

“That is all we need to know,” she murmurs.

Mar doesn’t ask what she means. She stands up and starts barking orders out with the confidence of a seasoned military leader. He notes that she is wearing a holster on her hip, neatly hidden under the edge of her apron.

Why is everyone armed? He can’t help but to wonder.

Immediately, people start flocking to their designated stations, and Mar is left staring in wonder as the foods are cooked, prepared, and plated in less than twenty minutes. Regretfully, he has to leave his new cat friend behind as he starts carrying plates outside and stacking them onto the appropriate tables.

Vegan food on one table, vegetarian on the other, and meat on the last. Someone wheels a barrel of plates and cutlery out by the fire, and the children start to line up. Mar gravitates toward one of the tables to help serve food. He can deal with children, he thinks to himself. As soon as Grandma gives the signal, the children start swarming the tables.

Mar begins to relax as he scoops appropriate amounts of food onto the plates. None of the children seem surprised to see him in armor, and he wonders if there are that many Mandalorians who come through here.

Once all the little ones have been served, the elderly and the pregnant take their turns. Sometimes, he gets the occasional question, but it is nothing _too_ personal. Except for some reason, Alira wants to know how old he is, and whether he has a wife. He pretends he doesn’t hear her and instead offers her more mashed potatoes. Mar backs out of the way as the rest of the family descends onto the feast like vultures. As he watches, he sees that every last adult has a weapon on their person.

He tilts his helmet, wondering what it means. No one here seems to be afraid of him. And if they truly thought him a threat, would they have invited him to eat at their table with their family? He glances at the horizon, wondering if they are expecting those massive spiders to come swam them.

“Mando,” comes a voice, “We made up some plates for you. Come on, eat up before it gets cold.”

The woman who speaks to him has a mess of curls pinned on top of her head, and she is wearing a dress in an eye-watering shade of blue. He does not recognize her, but he follows her to one of the yurts. She opens the screen door and ushers him inside.

“Door’s busted,” she says, making a face. “A couple of the teenagers decided to use one of the smaller ones as a battering ram.” Mar looks at the head-shaped dent in the door and finds himself impressed by the depth. “We pinned up a curtain for you, so you should be fine. Everyone knows to let you eat in peace.”

“Thank you,” Mar manages to say.

“My name is Jala,” she says with a grin. “If you need anything, just holler.”

Mando nods. As soon as she disappears, he turns back to the table in front of him. There is a _lot_ of food here. Gleefully, he realizes that it is all more than he could ever eat by himself. Well, no use in wasting food, he thinks as he picks up his fork. By the time Mar has had a taste of every plate, he is full to bursting and sleepy. He puts his fork down and sprawls back into the chair, patting his stomach in satisfaction.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Mando, you alright in there, or do I need to get you a wheelbarrow?” comes Jala’s teasing voice.

“I’ve eaten far more than I should,” Mar says, reaching for his helmet. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Alright, my niece is worried that we’ve pulled a Sikkina and threatened to stab you or something,” Jala says. Then an annoyed noise escapes her. “Hadi! Hadi, _no!_ ”

Mar pulls his helmet on just as a child squeals in protest.

“ – give me that – no do _not_ put that in your mouth!”

He gets to his feet and comes outside, where he sees Jala chasing after an unruly child. Quick as lightning, he grabs the child and stuffs him into Jala’s waiting arms. The young woman gives him a grin.

“Thanks!” she says. “Go, shoo, before she comes to find you herself.”

Mar nods and watches as Jala hauls the screeching toddler away. He turns to the bonfire, where he can see you warming your toes. Suddenly drained, he goes to join you, and sinks down onto the log. He stretches his hands out. With the next gust of wind, the temperature begins to creep downward. Soon, it will be unpleasant, even with the bonfire going.

“So,” you say. “Uh. I thought this was going to be a small gathering, but uhm…” You laugh nervously, not quite meeting his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he is quick to assure. “Your grandmother is very nice.”

You smile at him and turn your attention back to the fire. He sees that you have something in your lap. As you pick it up, he sees that it’s his harness, and it looks nearly finished.

“Aunt Jala is helping me with the straps,” you say with a smile. “She’s got neater stitches than I do.”

Mar nods absently, watching as you work the thick needle through the holes punched into the soft, buttery leather. Aside from his armor, that will probably be one of the nicest things he will ever own in his life.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“You just did, but go ahead,” you say with a laugh.

“I notice everyone is armed to the teeth,” he says carefully. “Are…you…” He reconsiders his words. “Are _we_ expecting trouble?”

The smile on your face becomes fixed.

“Later,” you say quietly. “Not right now, okay?”

As he nods, he notices someone coming toward them. Jala sits down on the log next to yours. She picks up the other strap and a needle of her own. Threading the needle, she glances at your work, and you turn it toward her so she can examine it more closely.

“Keep the tension constant,” she murmurs. “Looks good, though. What happened to your chest plate, Mando?”

Mar shrinks in on himself.

“Uh…Someone and I got into a disagreement,” Mar admits.

“Did you win?” Jala asks, tilting her head in an oddly familiar way.

“Well, I certainly didn’t _lose_.”

You start to snicker quietly. Jala looks at you, quirking a brow in your direction. Then she shrugs to herself.

“Must have been a hell of a disagreement,” Jala says with a smile. “What was it over?”

“Was Mando being an unrepentant…oh, what’s the word,” Sikkina drawls with a feral grin as she melts out of the shadows. “Is it… _di’kut_ , perhaps?”

Mando just shrugs in response and everyone laughs, making him wonder if he has missed out on some sort of joke. Sikkina joins Jala on the log. She wraps an arm around the other woman and pulls her in for a kiss. Jala giggles and blushes before turning her attention to the leather straps in her hands. Sikkina smirks at him, her arm wrapped around Jala’s waist possessively.

“So, who’d you piss off?” Sikkina asks. “Droid-made shit or not, _beskar_ can take a lot.”

Mar sighs grumpily.

“I mistook a Jedi for someone else. Didn’t realize it until they lit their saber and took a swing at me.”

All three of you start to laugh.

“Tell me you at least put up a better fight than you did earlier today,” Sikkina says.

“Stop picking fights, Sikkina,” Jala chides.

Before Mar can add his own insult, you give him a frown.

“That goes for you too, Mando.”

He purses his lips under his helmet. Unknowingly, Sikkina mirrors his facial expression.

“You suck the joy out of everything,” Sikkina mutters.

“I think we can agree on that,” Mar responds sourly.

You and Jala sigh in tandem, unaware that this is only one of many times that this conversation will be had.

* * *

The impromptu bonfire ends an hour shy of midnight, which means the two of you are out in the swarm of blood birds. From the corner of your eye, you can see Mando watching the birds swarm after the cart. Shifting into low gear, you park just outside of the yurt. The two of you linger, listening to the _plink-plonk_ of bloodbirds bouncing off the glass.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Ready,” he says, and he flings open the door.

The two of you bolt inside. He slams the door shut, but not quickly enough. As the four bloodbirds start swarming him, a blur of white comes rushing out from under the heater. Mar swats two of them away while Aguilla easily dispatches a third. You grab the broom to smack the fourth, but Aguilla beats you to it. Once all four birds are dead, Aguilla sits down to enjoy her impromptu snack, and you turn away.

“Good girl,” you tell her.

When she’s finished, you sweep up the last few feathers.

“Hey, it’s really cold in here,” Mando says.

You blink and look at the thermometer. With your extra layers, you hadn’t really noticed it. You go to investigate. The fan is as high as it will go, but you cannot feel anything coming out of the vents. Aguilla makes sure to sit by your foot as she makes her complaints known. You sigh grumpily.

“Damn,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. You pop open the panel and a cloud of black smoke pours out. Coughing, you waft it away from your face. Mando leans in.

“Looks like the entire board is fried,” he remarks. “Or…melted, might be more accurate.”

You sigh and press your face into your hand. It is going to be freezing tonight. Aguilla hops onto the heater and scratches at it, as if trying to turn it on.

“So, what do we do?” he asks. “Stove?”

You look at the stove. It might work in a pinch, so you check the generator and the fuel levels. Just enough to make breakfast tomorrow, and nowhere near enough to power it overnight. Pursing your lips, you glance over at the bedding, still tucked tidily into the big storage bins at the far wall. You’ve had to share in a pinch before, but would Mando _really_ risk it? You shake your head.

“It’s a dumb idea,” you say. “Uhm…”

“What’s a dumb idea?” he asks immediately. “It’s not dumb if it works.”

“Mando, it’s dumb,” you insist. “You won’t like it.”

“Tell me,” he insists.

“We _could_ push the cushions together,” you say sheepishly.

Mando stays quiet. He looks at the bedding. Then at the heater. Then back at you.

“You…you want to…share…a bed?” he stammers out.

“Yeah, I told you it was dumb,” you laugh at him. Aguilla lets out a wail as she starts clawing the side of the heater. “Aww, it’s okay you big baby, you will have me to keep you warm.” You start to walk toward the bedding.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea,” Mando blurts out. “Only if it’s cold.”

“Yeah, cold,” you repeat. “No other reason. For us to share a bed. Right?”

He nods three times jerkily. For a few moments you stand there, staring at the sleeping cushions.

If just a hug is enough to have you aching and wet, what will happen if you share a bed with him? Under the blankets, where no one could see where his hands would go? Swallowing, you nod, and steel yourself. It’s going to be freezing tonight, if those gusts of cold wind by the bonfire were any indication. A gust of wind rattles the walls and Aguilla cries out. This time, she actually sounds like she is uncomfortable. Your heart twists as Mando shrugs.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Uhm. It gets pretty dark…you shouldn’t be able to see…anything.”

Together, the two of you arrange the bedding, pressing the cushions together. After placing down the pillows, you inhale, then exhale slowly.

“I’ll take a shower first,” you say. “I’ll hide under the blanket when you need to get in. Deal?”

“Deal,” he says.

With that, the two of you part ways. After your shower, you dress in your pajamas. Then you turn the blankets down and make yourself comfortable. Aguilla follows you under the covers, pressing her back against your belly and resting her head on your forearm. You hear soft footsteps coming to the curtained-off area.

“Uhm, I’m coming around now,” he says softly, shyly.

You pull the blanket over your head and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Blanket over my head, eyes shut,” you say. Then with a grin, you lower your hand to cover Aguilla’s eyes. “Aguilla too.”

You hear a soft huff of laughter from Mando as he comes around. As Mando shuffles under the blanket, you try not to think about how _warm_ it suddenly is under the thick blankets.

“Alright, you’re good,” he says, and you poke your head out from under the blanket.

Without the moon outside, the entire yurt is pitch black. You can’t even see the stars through the windows. Gingerly, you turn onto your back and stare up. Inexplicable warmth fills you as Mando shifts. You can feel him looking at you.

“Can you see in the dark?” you ask, looking at where you think his face might be. The most minute twitch of his body tells you that you were spot on.

“A bit,” he says, then worriedly, “You…you can’t see anything, can you?”

You reach out and squeeze his forearm.

“I promise you I am blind right now,” you assure. “Mando…I respect your boundaries, okay?”

“Alright,” he whispers. A heartbeat of silence passes before he speaks again, “Question?”

“I might have an answer,” you respond gently.

“What did you mean by trouble earlier today?” he asks.

Of course, he hadn’t forgotten about that.

“We have an agreement with some _…friends_ ,” you explain, trying to avoid giving your people away, even though all you want to do is trust him. “And by friends, I mean in the loosest sense. They keep the raiders away, we give them some of what we make in exchange.”

“…are they taking advantage of your family?” Mando asks in a tone you’ve never heard before.

“They’ve taken more than they should this season,” you say quietly. “And none of us are strong enough to take them on ourselves. We heard from the family down south that they they’re making their rounds again. So we’re bracing for the inevitable fight when they come up here.”

“I would not be surprised if I found you and your aunt trying to pick fights,” Mando murmurs.

“Hey!” you protest.

He laughs. It sounds so rich without his vocalizer. So organic. Even though you’ve always known there was a person underneath all that armor, it’s like this is the first time you’ve _realized_ it. It makes you giddy to know that you are only one of a handful who have known him like this.

“…how many are there?” Mando asks in a tone of voice too casual to be ignored. A tone you recognize. You sigh in exasperation.

“Mando. You are being paid to work,” you say firmly. “Not to play around.”

“Don’t I deserve a break from all this back-breaking labor?” he asks playfully.

“Yes, you do,” you respond. “And you get that break when you sleep.”

“Spoilsport,” he sighs.

“Someone has to keep you and Aguilla from burning this yurt to the ground,” you mutter.

He laughs and Aguilla meows indignantly. You squeeze your cat closer to yourself, soaking up her warmth. Mando eventually drifts off. You stay awake, staring up at the roof you cannot see, stroking Aguilla’s fur intermittently. Jala told you about the things he had told Grandmother. The people he had come across. The people who had been kind and patient. The ones who had taught him those valuable lessons about himself and his worth. You risk a peek over at him in the darkness.

Though you cannot see his face, you can _feel_ him there. Closing your eyes, you turn to face him and scoot a little closer, daring to rest your head against his shoulder. It has been so long since you last had this kind of closeness with another person. No warrior has ever caught your attention so strongly.

This oversized pile of contradictions in armor had stumbled into your life and forced you to reevaluate how you viewed yourself and the others in your life. And now, you have less than forty-eight hours with this magnificent idiot. Less than two days to imagine the smile on his lips. As you gingerly drape your arm across his midsection, you close your eyes, sudden frustration filling your belly like lead.

Forty-eight hours is not enough, you think morosely, as you listen to the steady thumping of his heart. His breathing is shallow. He’s still awake. Too afraid to speak and break the moment, you squeeze your arm around him, hoping he will understand. Reflexively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to respond, to show you that your feelings are returned. Mando wraps his arm around you, enclosing you in that warm, safe spot against him.

 _Kar’yaim_ , you think to yourself, biting down on your lip to avoid speaking it out loud.

Forty-eight hours until you have to give him up to the road. Will he remember you? Or will you be the kind blacksmith in his stories? You force yourself to breathe and blink away the tears in your eyes.

Mandalorian. You are Mandalorian, you remind yourself, and you will make do with what you are given in this life. You cannot force him to stay, just as he cannot force you to journey with him. The only person who can make the decision to stay is him. And if these forty-eight hours are all you will ever have with him? You will look back on your time with him with nothing but fondness in your heart.

No matter what your mind tells you, your heart knows it - a lifetime by his side could never be enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> Ba’vodu – Aunt/uncle  
> Ba’vodu’ad(e) – niece/nephew  
> Buir(e) – parent(s)  
> Mand’alor – leader of the Mandalorian people  
> Alor – leader of the Tribe/clan  
> Verd(e) – warrior(s)  
> Kar’yaim – a word I made up that is a combination of karta (heart) and yaim (home). I intend for it to mean something like “the place my heart calls home” or something romantic like that.

**Author's Note:**

> **Mando’a Translations**
> 
> shereshoy – lust for life, enjoying every single day and the experiences it brings, uniquely Mandalorian in that you never know if you are going to live long enough to see the next day.  
> beskar – Mandalorian steel  
> al’verde – commander  
> shebs – ass  
> shabuir – insult, jerk but much stronger (asshole tax)  
> aliik – sigil, symbol on armor  
> jai'galaar - shriekhawk. The symbol on his armor is a diving shriekhawk.  
> di'kut – idiot  
> alor – leader  
> Mand'alor - leader of the Mandalorian people  
> aruetii(se) – outsider(s)  
> pa'puurgal – white wine  
> boracykir – between jobs, using it as an insult here for Mando  
> ba'buir(e) – grandparent(s)  
> Ni dirycir ner kovid – lit. "I lower my head.” Basically, this is my made up way for a Mandalorian to say “I submit, I know where my place is, no need for you to put me back in it.”
> 
> **More Notes**
> 
> The chickens are literally small, feathery raptors. If you recall that one scene in Jurassic World where Blue is yelling at her packmates, that’s the noise they’re making.
> 
> Bloodbirds are vampire bats, but in bird shape. The mosquito of this world.
> 
> The cows are big and leathery. The blood birds can’t pierce their tough hides. Also, the cows eat the bloodbirds whenever they see them.


End file.
